{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7073/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7073","id":"gutenberg_7073","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7073","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Classics of Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Classical Antiquity","Greek drama (Tragedy) -- Translations into English","Harvard Classics"],"text":"This eBook was produced by Juliet Sutherland, William Koven,\nCharles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\nSPECIMENS OF GREEK TRAGEDY\n\nTranslated By\n\nGOLDWIN SMITH, D.C.L.\n\n\n\nAESCHYLUS AND SOPHOCLES\n\n\n\n1893\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nGreek drama, forerunner of ours, had its origin in the festival of\nDionysus, god of wine, which was celebrated with dance, song, and\nrecitative. The recitative, being in character, was improved into the\nDrama, the chief author of the improvement, tradition says, being\nThespis. But the dance and song were retained, and became the Chorus,\nthat peculiar feature of the Greek play. This seems to be the general\naccount of the matter, and especially of the combination of the lyric\nwith the dramatic element, so far as we can see through the mist of an\nunrecorded age.\n\nThirlwall, still perhaps the soundest and most judicious, though not\nthe most vivid or enthusiastic, historian of Greece, traces the origin\nof the Drama to \"the great choral compositions uniting the attractions\nof music and action to those of a lofty poetry, which formed the\nfavourite entertainment of the Dorian cities.\" This, he says, appears\nto have been the germ out of which, by the introduction of a new\nelement, the recitation of a performer who assumed a character and\nperhaps from the first shifted his mask, so as to exhibit the outlines\nof a simple story in a few scenes parted by the intervening song of\nthe Chorus, Thespis and his successors unfolded the Attic Tragedy. Of\nthe further development of the Drama in the age of Pericles, Thirlwall\nsays:--\n\n\"The drama was the branch of literature which peculiarly signalised\nthe age of Pericles; and it belongs to the political, no less than to\nthe literary, history of these times, and deserves to be considered in\nboth points of view. The steps by which it was brought through a\nseries of innovations to the form which it presents in its earliest\nextant remains, are still a subject of controversy among antiquarians;\nand even the poetical character of the authors by whom these changes\nwere effected, and of their works, is involved in great uncertainty.\nWe have reason to believe that it was no want of merit, or of absolute\nworth, which caused them to be neglected and forgotten, but only the\nsuperior attraction of the form which the drama finally assumed. Of\nPhrynichus in particular, the immediate predecessor of Aeschylus, we\nare led to conceive a very favourable opinion, both by the manner in\nwhich he is mentioned by the ancients who were acquainted with his\npoems, and by the effect which it is recorded to have produced upon\nhis audience. It is clear that Aeschylus, who found him in undisputed\npossession of the public favour, regarded him as a worthy rival, and\nwas in part stimulated by emulation to unfold the capacities of their\ncommon art by a variety of new inventions. These, however, were so\nimportant as to entitle their author to be considered as the father of\nAttic tragedy. This title he would have deserved, if he had only\nintroduced the dialogue, which distinguished his drama from that of\nthe preceding poets, who had told the story of each piece in a series\nof monologues. So long as this was the case, the lyrical part must\nhave created the chief interest; and the difference between the Attic\ntragedy and the choral songs which were exhibited in a similar manner\nin the Dorian cities was perhaps not so striking as their agreement.\nThe innovation made by Aeschylus altered the whole character of the\npoem; raised the purely dramatic portion from a subordinate to the\nprincipal rank, and expanded it into a richly varied and well\norganised composition. With him, it would seem, and as a natural\nconsequence of this great change, arose the usage, which to us appears\nso singular, of exhibiting what was sometimes called a trilogy, which\ncomprised three distinct tragedies at the same time.\"\n\nGrote says:--\n\n\"The tragic drama belonged essentially to the festivals in honour of\nthe god Dionysus; being originally a chorus sung in his honour, to\nwhich were successively superadded: First, an iambic monologue; next,\na dialogue with two actors; lastly, a regular plot with three actors,\nand a chorus itself interwoven into the scene. Its subjects were from\nthe beginning, and always continued to be, persons either divine or\nheroic above the level of historical life, and borrowed from what was\ncalled the mythical past. 'The Persae' of Aeschylus, indeed, forms a\nsplendid exception; but the two analogous dramas of his contemporary,\nPhrynichus, 'The Phoenissae,' and 'The Capture of Miletus,' were not\nsuccessful enough to invite subsequent tragedians to meddle with\ncontemporary events. To three serious dramas, or a trilogy--at first\nconnected together by a sequence of subject more or less loose, but\nafterwards unconnected and on distinct subjects, through an innovation\nintroduced by Sophocles, if not before--the tragic poet added a fourth\nor satyrical drama; the characters of which were satyrs, the\ncompanions of the god Dionysus, and other historic or mythical persons\nexhibited in farce. He thus made up a total of four dramas, or a\ntetralogy, which he got up and brought forward to contend for the\nprize at the festival. The expense of training the chorus and actors\nwas chiefly furnished by the choregi,--wealthy citizens, of whom one\nwas named for each of the ten tribes, and whose honour and vanity were\ngreatly interested in obtaining a prize. At first these exhibitions\ntook place on a temporary stage, with nothing but wooden supports and\nscaffolding; but shortly after the year 500 B.C., on an occasion when\nthe poets Aeschylus and Pratinas were contending for the prize, this\nstage gave way during the ceremony, and lamentable mischief was the\nresult. After that misfortune, a permanent theatre of stone was\nprovided. To what extent the project was realised before the\ninvasion of Xerxes we do not accurately know; but after his\ndestructive occupation of Athens, the theatre, if any existed\npreviously, would have to be rebuilt or renovated, along with\nother injured portions of the city.\"\n\nCurtius says:--\n\n\"Thespis was the founder of Attic tragedy. He had introduced a\npreliminary system of order into the alternation of recitative and\nsong, into the business of the actor, and into the management of dress\nand stage. Solon was said to have disliked the art of Thespis,\nregarding as dangerous the violent excitement of feelings by means of\nphantastic representation; the Tyrants, on the other hand, encouraged\nthis new popular diversion; it suited their policy that the poor\nshould be entertained at the expense of the rich; the competition of\nrival tragic choirs was introduced; and the stage near the black\npoplar on the market-place became a centre of the festive merry-\nmakings in Attica.\"\n\nCurtius thinks that Pisistratus, as a popular usurper and opponent of\nthe aristocracy, encouraged the worship of the popular god Dionysus\nwith the Tragic Chorus, and he gives Pisistratus the credit of this\nglorious innovation. A similar policy was ascribed to Cleisthenes of\nSicyon by Herodotus (v. 67).\n\nThe Chorus thus remaining wedded to the Drama, parts the action with\nlyric pieces more or less connected with it, and expressive of the\nfeelings which it excites. In Aeschylus and Sophocles the connection\nis generally close; less close in Euripides. The Chorus also\noccasionally joins in the dialogue, moralising or sympathising,\nand sometimes, it must be owned, in a rather commonplace and insipid\nstrain. In \"The Eumenides\" of Aeschylus, the chorus of Furies takes\npart as a character in the drama; in \"The Suppliants\" it plays the\nprincipal part.\n\nThe Drama came to perfection with Athenian art generally, and with\nAthens herself in the period which followed the Persian war. The\nperformance of plays at the Dionysiac festival was an important event\nin Athenian life. The whole city was gathered in the great open-air\ntheatre consecrated to Dionysus, whose priest occupied the seat of\nhonour. All the free men, at least, were gathered there; and when we\ntalk about the intellectual superiority of the Athenian people, we\nmust bear in mind that a condition of Athenian culture was the\ndelegation of industry to the slave. That audience was probably the\nliveliest, most quick-witted, most appreciative, and most critical\nthat the world ever saw. Prizes were given to the authors of the best\npieces. Each tragedian exhibited three pieces, which at first formed a\nconnected series, though afterwards this rule was disregarded. After\nthe three tragic pieces was performed a satyric drama, to relieve the\nmind from the strain of tragedy, and perhaps also as a conventional\ntribute to the jollity of the god of wine. In the Elizabethan Drama\nthe tragic and comic are blended as they are in life.\n\nThe subjects were taken usually from mythology, especially from the\ncircle of legends relating to the siege of Troy, to the tragic history\nof the house of Atreus, the equally tragic history of the house of\nLaius, and the adventures of Hercules. The subject of \"The Persae\" of\nAeschylus is a contemporary event, but this, as Grote says, was an\nexception. Heroic action and suffering, the awful force of destiny and\nof the will of heaven, are the general themes of Aeschylus and\nSophocles; passion, especially feminine passion, is more frequently\nthe theme of Euripides. Romantic love, the staple of the modern drama\nand novel, was hardly known to the Greeks, whose romantic affection\nwas friendship, such as that of Orestes and Pylades, or Achilles and\nPatroclus. The only approach to romantic love in the extant drama is\nthe love of Haemon and Antigone in the \"Antigone\" of Sophocles; and\neven here it is subordinate to the conflict between state law and law\ndivine, which is the key-note of the piece; while the lovers do not\nmeet upon the scene. The sterner and fiercer passions, on the whole,\npredominate, though Euripides has given us touching pictures of\nconjugal, fraternal, and sisterly love. In the \"Oedipus Coloneus\" of\nSophocles also, filial love and the gentler feelings play a part in\nharmony with the closing scene of the old man's unhappy life. In the\n\"Philoctetes,\" Sophocles introduces, as an element of tragedy,\nphysical pain, though it is combined with moral suffering.\n\nA popular entertainment was of course adapted to the tastes of the\npeople. Debate, both political and forensic, was almost the daily\nbread of the people of Athens. The Athenian loved smart repartee and\ndisplay of the power of fencing with words. The thrust and parry of\nwit in the single-line dialogues (_stichomythia_) pleased them\nmore than it pleases us. Rhetoric had a practical interest when not\nonly the victory of a man's opinions in the political assembly, but\nhis life and property before the popular tribunal, might depend on his\ntongue. The Drama was also used in the absence of a press for\npolitical or social teaching, and for the insinuation of political or\nsocial opinions. In reading these passages we must throw ourselves\nback twenty-three centuries, into an age when political and social\nobservation was new, like politics and civilised society themselves,\nand ideas familiar to us now were fresh and struggling for expression.\nThe remark may be extended to the political philosophy which struggles\nfor expression in the speeches of Thucydides.\n\nThe trio of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides has been compared with\nthat of Marlowe, Shakespeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher, and with that\nof Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire. The parallel will hardly hold good\nexcept as an illustration of the course of youth, perfection, and\ndecay through which every art or product of imagination seems to run,\nunlike science,  which continually advances. The epoch of the Athenian\nthree, like that of the Elizabethan three, like that of the great\nSpanish dramatists, was one of national achievement, and their drama\nwas thoroughly national; whereas the French drama was the highly\nartificial entertainment of an exclusive Court.\n\nAeschylus (B.C. 525-456) was the heroic poet of Athens. He had fought\ncertainly at Marathon, and, we may be pretty sure, at Salamis, so that\nthe narrative of the battle of Salamis in \"The Persae\" is probably\nthat of an eye-witness; and that he had fought at Marathon, not that\nhe had won the prize in drama, was the inscription which he desired\nfor his tomb. He is of the old school of thought and sentiment, full\nof reverence for religion and for eternal law. The growing scepticism\nhad not touched him. His morality is lofty and austere. In politics he\nwas a conservative, of the party of Cimon, opposed to the radically\ndemocratic party of Pericles; and his drama, especially the Oresteian\ntrilogy, teems with conservative sentiment and allusion. His\ncharacters are of heroic cast. He deals superbly with the moral forces\nand destiny; though it may be that more philosophy has been found in\nhim, especially by his German commentators, than is there, and that\nobscurity arising from his imperfect command of language has sometimes\nbeen mistaken for depth. His \"Agamemnon\" is generally deemed the\nmasterpiece of Greek tragedy. His language is stately and swelling, in\nkeeping with the heroic part of his characters; sometimes it is too\nswelling, and even bombastic. Though he is the greatest of all, art in\nhim had not arrived at technical perfection. He reminds us sometimes\nof the Aeginetan marbles, rather than the frieze of the Parthenon.\n\nIn Sophocles (B.C. 495-405) the dramatic art has arrived at technical\nperfection. His drama is regarded as the literary counterpart of the\nParthenon. Its calm and statuesque excellence exactly met the\nrequirements of the taste which we call classic, and seems to\ncorrespond with the character of the dramatist, which was notably\ngentle, and with his form, which was typically beautiful. His\ncharacters are less heroic, and nearer to common humanity than those\nof Aeschylus. He appeals more to pity. His art is more subtle,\nespecially in the treatment, for which he is famous, of the irony of\nfate. In politics, social sentiment, and religion, while he is more of\nthe generation of Pericles than Aeschylus, he is still conservative\nand orthodox. If he belongs to democracy, it is a democracy still kept\nwithin moral bounds, and owning a master in its great chief, with whom\nhe seems to have been personally connected. Nor does he ever court\npopularity by bringing the personages of the heroic age down to the\ncommon level. He, as well as Aeschylus, is dear to Aristophanes, the\nsatiric poet of conservatism, while Euripides is hateful.\n\nEuripides (B.C. 480-406) perhaps slightly resembles Voltaire in this,\nthat he belongs to a different historic zone from his two\npredecessors, from Sophocles as well as from Aeschylus, in political\nand social sentiment, though not in date. He belongs to a full-blown\ndemocracy, and is evidently the dramatic poet of the people. To please\nthe people he lays dignity and stateliness aside, brings heroic\ncharacters down to a common level, and introduces characters which are\nunheroic. He gives the people plenty of passion, especially of\nfeminine passion, without being nice as to its sources, or rejecting\nsuch stories as those of Phaedra and Medea, which would have been\nalien to the taste, not only of Aeschylus, but of Sophocles. He gives\nthem plenty of politics, plenty of rhetoric, plenty of discussion,\npolitical and moral, plenty of speculation, which in those days was\nnovel, now and then a little scepticism. His \"Alcestis\" is melodrama\nverging on sentimental comedy, and heralding the sentimental comedy of\nMenander known to us in the versions of Terence. The chord of pathos\nhe can touch well. His degradation, as the old school thought it, of\nthe drama of Aeschylus and Sophocles, and what they deemed his\npandering to vulgar taste, brought upon him the bitter satire of\nAristophanes. Yet he did not win many prizes. Perhaps the vast theatre\nand the grand choric accompaniments harmonised ill with his unheroic\nstyle. He is clearly connected with the Sophists, and with the\ngeneration the morality of which had been unsettled by the violence of\nfaction and the fury of the Peloponnesian war. Still there is no\nreason for saying that he preached moral scepticism or impiety.\nProbably he did not intend to preach anything, but to please his\npopular audience and to win the prize. The line quoted against him,\n\"My lips have sworn, but my mind is unsworn,\" read in its place, has\nnothing in it immoral. Perhaps he had his moods: he was religious when\nhe wrote \"The Bacchae.\" As little ground is there for dubbing him a\nwoman-hater. If he has his Phaedra and Medea, he has also his Alcestis\nand Electra. He seems to have prided himself on his choric odes. Some\nof them have beauty in themselves, but they are little relevant to the\nplay.\n\nA full and critical account of the plays will not be expected in the\nPreface to a series of extracts; it will be found in such literary\nhistories as that of Professor Mahaffy. Nor can it be necessary to\ndilate on the merit of the pieces selected. The sublime agony of\nPrometheus Bound, the majesty of wickedness in Clytaemnestra,\nthe martial grandeur of the siege of Thebes, or of the battle of\nSalamis, in Aeschylus; the awful doom of Oedipus, his mysterious end,\nthe heroic despair of Ajax, the martyrdom of Antigone to duty, in\nSophocles; the passion of Phaedra and Medea, the conjugal\nself-sacrifice of Alcestis, the narratives of the deaths of Polyxena\nand the slaughter of Pentheus by the Bacchae, in Euripides, speak for\nthemselves, if the translation is at all faithful, and find their best\ncomment in the reader's natural appreciation.\n\nThe number of those who do not read the originals will be increased by\nthe dropping of Greek from the academical course. To give them\nsomething like an equivalent for the original in English is the object\nof a translation. As prose can never be an equivalent for poetry, and\nas the thoughts and diction of poetry are alien to prose, it is\nnecessary to run the risks of a translation in verse. To translate as\nfar as possible line for line, is requisite in the case of the Greek\ndramatists, if we would not lose the form and balance which are of the\nessence of Greek art. It is necessary also to preserve as much as\npossible the simplicity of diction, and to avoid words and phrases\nsuggestive of very modern ideas. After all, it is difficult, with a\nmaterial so motley and irregular as the English language, to produce\nanything like the pure marble of the Greek. There are translations of\nGreek tragedies or parts of them by writers of high poetic reputation,\nwhich are no doubt poetry, but are not Greek art.\n\nThe lyric portions of the Greek Drama are admired and even\nenthusiastically praised by literary judges whose verdict we shall not\npresume to dispute. To translation, however, the choric odes hardly\nlend themselves. Their dithyrambic character, their high-flown\nlanguage, strained metaphors, tortuous constructions, and frequent,\nperhaps studied, obscurity, render it almost impossible to reproduce\nthem in the forms of our poetry. Nor perhaps when they are strictly\nanalysed will much be found, in many of them at least, of the material\nwhereof modern poetry is made. They are, in fact, the libretto of a\nchant accompanied by dancing, and must have owed much to the melody\nand movement. In attempting to render the grand choric odes of the\n\"Agamemnon,\" moreover, the translator is perplexed by corruptions of\nthe text and by the various interpretations of commentators, who,\nthough they all agree as to the moral pregnancy and sublimity of the\npassage, frequently differ as to its precise meaning. A metrical\ntranslation of these odes in English is apt to remind us of the\nmetrical versions of the Hebrew Psalms. A part of one chorus in\nAeschylus, which forms a distinct picture, has been given in\nrhythmical prose; three choruses of Sophocles and two of Euripides\nhave, not without misgiving, been rendered in verse.\n\nThe spelling of proper names is in a state of somewhat chaotic\ntransition which makes it difficult to take a definite course. The\nprecisians themselves are not consistent: they still speak of Troy,\nAthens, Plato, and Aristotle. In the versions themselves the Greek\nforms have been preferred, though a pedantic extreme has been avoided.\nIn the Preface and Introduction the forms familiar to the English\nreader have been used.\n\nFor Aeschylus and Euripides, the editions of Paley in the _Bibliotheca\nClassica_ have been used; for Sophocles, that of Mr. Lewis Campbell.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nAESCHYLUS.\n\nPROMETHEUS BOUND.\n\nIntroduction\n\nPrometheus is brought in by the Spirits of Might and Force, Hephaestus\naccompanying them. Lines 1-113\n\nThe Sin of Prometheus. Lines 444-533\n\nPrometheus defies Zeus. Lines 928-1114\n\n\nTHE PERSIANS.\n\nIntroduction\n\nAtossa's Dream. Lines 1478-216\n\nThe Battle of Salamis and the Destruction of the Persian Fleet. Lines\n251-473\n\n\nTHE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES.\n\nIntroduction\n\nThe Champions. Lines 370-673\n\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nIntroduction\n\nThe Fall of Troy announced at Mycenae. Lines 1-39\n\nThe Chorus recounts the Sacrifice of Iphigenia. Lines 177-240\n\nThe Meeting of Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra. Lines 828-947\n\nCassandra's Prophecy. Lines 1149-1391\n\nCassandra's Prophecy fulfilled. Lines 1343-1554\n\n\nTHE CHO\u00cbPHOROE.\n\nIntroduction\n\nOrestes discovers himself to Electra. Lines 158-274\n\nClytaemnestra pleads to her Son Orestes for her Life in Vain. Lines\n860-916\n\n\nTHE EUMENIDES (FURIES).\n\nIntroduction\n\nOrestes is tried as a Matricide before the Court of the Areopagus at\nAthens. Lines 536-747\n\n\nSOPHOCLES.\n\n\nOEDIPUS THE KING.\n\nIntroduction\n\nThe Plague-stricken Thebans supplicate Oedipus for Relief. Lines 1-77\n\nOedipus calls upon Tiresias to reveal the Murderer of Laius. Lines\n300-462\n\nThe Death of Polybus announced. The Secret of Oedipus's Incest and\nMurder revealed. Lines 924-1085\n\nJocasta hangs herself and Oedipus puts out his Eyes. The Scene\ndescribed. Lines 1223-1296\n\nOedipus bewails his Calamities. His Colloquy with Creon. Lines\n1369-1514\n\n\nOEDIPUS AT COLONUS.\n\nIntroduction\n\nOedipus and Antigone arrive at Colonus and enter the Consecrated\nGround. Lines 1-110\n\nThe Chorus chants the Praises of Colonus. Lines 668-719\n\nLength of Days: Choric Hymn. Lines 1211-1238\n\nThe End of Oedipus. Lines 1579-1667\n\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nIntroduction\n\nAntigone proposes to Ismene to take a Part in paying the Last Rites to\ntheir Brother Polynices. Lines 1-99\n\nAntigone is caught by the Guard paying Funeral Rites to the Corpse of\nPolynices, and is brought before Creon. Lines 384-581\n\nA Colloquy between Creon and his Son Haemon, to whom Antigone is\nbetrothed. Lines 631-780\n\nThe Power of Love: Choric Hymn. Lines 781-800\n\nAntigone is sent to her Death by Creon. Lines 882-928\n\nCreon, having been brought to Repentance by the Denunciations of the\nProphet Tiresias, sets out to bury the Corpse of Polynices and release\nAntigone from the Cave of Death. The Issue is recounted by a Messenger\nto the Queen, Eurydice. Lines 1155-1243\n\n\nAJAX.\n\nIntroduction\n\nTecmessa, a Captive with whom Ajax lives as his Wife, tells the Chorus\nof Salaminian Mariners what has befallen their Chieftain. Lines\n284-330\n\nAjax bewails his own Fall. Tecmessa tries to comfort him and turn him\nfrom Violent Courses. Lines 430-595\n\nAjax pretends to be softened, and to be going forth only for the\nHarmless Purpose of Purification in a Running Stream, though he is\nreally going to his Death. Lines 646-692\n\nThe Last Speech of Ajax. Lines 815-865\n\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIntroduction\n\nThe Tutor of Orestes tells Clytaemnestra a Fictitious Story of her\nSon's Death by a Fall in a Chariot Race. Electra is on the Scene.\nLines 660-822\n\nElectra's Sister Chrysothemis, having found the offerings of Orestes\non his Father's Tomb, brings what she deems glad Tidings to Electra,\nwho meets her with the Announcement that the Pedagogos has just\nbrought Certain News of their Brother's Death. Electra, now reduced to\nDespair, proposes to Chrysothemis that they should themselves attempt\nto slay Aegisthus. Lines 871-1057\n\nOrestes enters with the Urn which, it is pretended, contains his\nAshes. His Recognition ensues. Lines 1097-1231\n\n\nTHE TRACHINIAE\n\nIntroduction\n\nDeianira imparts the Secret of her Device for regaining the Love of\nher Husband, Hercules, and puts the Fatal Robe into the Hands of\nLichas, the Herald, that he may carry it to Hercules. Lines 531-632\n\nDeianira recounts to the Chorus an Alarming and Portentous Incident.\nThen Hyllus, the Son of Hercules, comes and announces the Catastrophe.\nLines 663-820\n\n\nPHILOCTETES.\n\nIntroduction\n\nUlysses explains the Plan of Action to Neoptolemus, and labours to\nbend him to his Purpose. Lines 1-134\n\nNeoptolemus having filched the Bow of Philoctetes, Philoctetes prays\nhim to restore it. Lines 927-962\n\n\n\n\n\nAESCHYLUS\n\n\n\n\nPROMETHEUS BOUND.\n\n\nPrometheus, the good Titan, has been raising mankind from the\ncondition of primeval brutes by teaching them the arts of\ncivilisation. At last he steals fire from heaven for their use.\nBy this he incurs the wrath of Zeus, who, having deposed his\nfather Chronos, has become king of the gods. As a punishment\nPrometheus is condemned by Zeus to be chained to a rock in the\nCaucasus, with an eagle always feeding on his breast. But Prometheus\nknows the secret of a mysterious marriage which is destined in time to\ntake place, and by the offspring of which Zeus in his turn is to be\ndethroned. Strong in his consciousness of this, he defies Zeus, who by\nthe agency of Hermes tries in vain to wrest the secret from him. The\npersons of the drama, besides Prometheus, are Hephaestus, better known\nby his Latin name of Vulcan, Might and Force personified, Hermes the\nmessenger of Heaven, and the wandering Io. The chorus consists of sea-\nnymphs, who sympathise with the suffering Prometheus. This drama is a\nsublime enigma. Aeschylus was conservative and deeply religious. How\ncould he write a play the hero of which is a benefactor of man\nstruggling against the tyranny of the king of the gods, and the sequel\nof which found a fit and congenial composer in Shelley, whose\nsentiment and manner the \"Prometheus Bound\" wonderfully anticipates\nand perhaps helped to form? Again, how could the Athenians, in an age\nwhen their piety had not yet given way to scepticism, have endured\nsuch dramatic treatment of the chief of the gods? It is almost as if a\nMystery Play had been presented in the Middle Ages with Satan for the\nhero and the First Person of the Trinity in the character of an\noppressor. Perhaps the position of Zeus in the drama as a usurper may,\nin some degree, have softened the religious effect.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrometheus is brought in by the Spirits of Might and Force,\nHephaestus accompanying them.\n\nLINES 1-113.\n\nSCENE: _The Caucasus_.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nUnto earth's utmost boundary we have come,\nTo Scythia's realm, th' untrodden wilderness.\nHephaestus, now it is thy part to do\nThe Almighty Father's bidding, and to bind\nThis arch-deceiver to yon lowering cliff\nWith bonds of everlasting adamant.\nThy attribute, all-fabricating fire,\nHe stole and gave to man. Such is the crime\nFor which he pays the penalty to Heaven,\nThat he may learn henceforth meekly to bear\nThe rule of Zeus and less befriend mankind.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nSpirits of Might and Force, by you the word\nOf Zeus has been fulfilled; your task is done.\nBut I--to bind a god, one of my kin,\nTo a storm-beaten cliff, my heart abhors.\nAnd yet this must I do, for woe is him\nThat does not what the Almighty Sire commands.\nThou high-aspiring son of Themis sage,\nUnwilling is the hand that rivets thee\nIndissolubly to this lonely rock,\nWhere thou shalt see no face and hear no voice\nOf man, but, scorched by the sun's burning ray,\nChange thy fair hue for dark, and long for night\nWith starry kirtle to close up the day,\nAnd for the morn to melt the frosts of night,\nStill racked with tortures endlessly renewed,\nAnd which to end redeemer none is born.\nSuch is the guerdon of thy love for man.\nA god thyself, thou gav'st, despite the gods,\nTo mortals more than is a mortal's due.\nAnd therefore must thou keep this dreary rock,\nErect, with frame unbending, reft of sleep,\nAnd many a bootless wail of agony\nShalt utter. Change of mind in Zeus is none,\nRuthless the rule when power is newly won.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nTo work! A truce to these weak wails of ruth.\nWhom the gods hate why dost thou not abhor--\nHim that betrayed thy attribute to man?\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nGreat force have kindred and companionship.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nTrue, but to disobey the Almighty Sire\nHow canst thou dare? Fearest thou not this more?\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nRelentless still and pitiless art thou.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nThy wailings are no medicines for his woes;\nThen waste no pains on that which profits naught.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nO thrice accurs'd this master-craft of mine!\n\nMIGHT.\n\nWhy dost thou curse it? Simple truth to say,\nThy art is no way guilty of these ills.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nWould it had fallen to any lot but mine.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nThe one thing to the gods themselves denied\n[Footnote: In this passage I have retained the old reading eprachthae\nwith the interpretation of the Scholiast.]\nIs sovereignty, for Zeus alone is free.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nToo well I know it, and gainsay it not.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nBe quick, then, and make fast this sinner's chain,\nLest the Almighty see thee loitering.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nHere are the fetters for his arms; behold them.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nGrasp him, and with thy hammer round his arms\nStrike and strike hard and clench them to the rock.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nThe work goes on apace and tarries not.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nStrike harder, clench, leave nothing loose; his craft,\nE'en in extremity, can find a way.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nThis arm is fixed past any power to loose.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nClench now the other firmly; let him know\nThat all his cunning is no match for Zeus.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nFault with my work can no one find save he.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nDrive then the ruthless spike of adamant\nRight through the sinner's breast and see it holds.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nAlas, Prometheus! I bemoan thy pains.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nThou loiterest, moaning for the foe of Zeus;\nOne day thou mayest be moaning for thyself.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nThou see'st a sight most piteous to behold.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nI see yon sinner meeting his desert.\nProceed, make fast the fetters round his sides.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nNeeds must I do it, press me not too hard.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nPress thee I will, and shout into thine ear.\nGo down and clench the gyves about his legs.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nThat work with little labour has been done.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nNow let thy hammer all the bonds make fast;\nThe overseer of this thy work is stern.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nThy speech is ruthless as thy looks are grim.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nBe thou soft-hearted an thou wilt, but spare\nTo flout my sternness and my strong resolve.\n\nHEPHAESTUS.\n\nLet us be gone; the gyves are on his legs.\n\nMIGHT.\n\nThere revel in thy insolence, there rob\nGods of their attributes to give to man.\nCan mortal man in aught thy durance ease?\nIll chosen was the name that thou hast borne.\nForesight it means, but thou dost foresight need\nTo set thy limbs free from his handiwork.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nO glorious firmament; O swift-winged winds,\nYe rivers and ye gleaming ocean waves\nInnumerable, and thou great Mother Earth,\nThou, too, O sun, with thy all-seeing eye,\nLook how a god is treated by the gods!\nSee the pains that I must bear,\nEven to the thousandth year!\nSuch the chains that heaven's new king\nForges for my torturing.\nAh me! Ah me! my present woe\nDoes but the pangs to come foreshow,\nPangs that an end will never know.\n\nYet hold! The darkness of futurity\nIs to my eye not dark, nor can aught come\nThat I do not foresee. Our destiny\nWe all must bear as lightly as we may,\nSince none may wrestle with necessity.\nAnd yet to speak or not to speak alike\nIs miserable. High service done to man--\nFor this I bear the adamantine chain.\nI to its elemental fountain tracked,\nIn fern-pith stored and bore by stealth away,\nFire, source and teacher of all arts to men.\nSuch mine offence, whereof the penalty\nI pay, thus chained in face of earth and heaven.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE SIN OF PROMETHEUS_.\n\nLINES 444-533.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nThink not it is from pride or wantonness\nThat I forbear to speak; my heart is wrung\nWith looking on these ignominious bonds.\nWho was it that to these new deities\nTheir attributes apportioned? Who but I?\nOf that no more; to you as well as me\nThe tale is known; but list while I recount\nHow vile was man's estate, how void was man\nOf reason, till I gave him mind and sense.\nNot that I would upbraid the race of men:\nI would but show my own benevolence.\nEyesight they had, yet nothing saw aright;\nEars, and yet heard not; but like forms in dreams,\nFor ages lived a life confused, nor bricks\nNor woodwork had to build them sunny homes,\nBut dwelt beneath the ground, as do the tribes\nDiminutive of ants, in sunless caves.\nNor had they signs to mark the season's change,\nComing of winter or of flowery spring\nOr of boon summer; but at random wrought\nIn all things, till I taught them to discern\nThe risings and the settings of the stars;\nThe use of numbers, crown of sciences,\nWas my invention; mine were letters too,\nThe implement of mind in all its works.\nFirst I trained beasts to draw beneath the yoke,\nThe collar to endure, the rider bear,\nAnd thus relieve man of his heaviest toils.\nFirst taught the steed, obedient to the rein,\nTo draw the chariot, wealth's proud appanage.\nNor, before me, did any launch the barque\nWith its white wings to rove the ocean wave.\nThese blessings, hapless that I am, have I\nDevised for man, and yet device have none\nMyself to liberate from these fell bonds.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSad is thy lot, to thy unwisdom due.\nNow, like a bad physician that himself\nHas into sickness fallen, thou dost despair\nAnd hast no medicine for thine own disease.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nHear what remains, and thou wilt wonder more\nAt all the feats of my inventive mind.\nGreatest of all was this; when they fell sick\nMen had no help, no medicine edible,\nPotion or ointment, but for lack of cure\nWasted away and perished, till my skill\nTaught them to mix the juice of sovran herbs,\nWith which they now ward off all maladies.\nOf divination many ways I traced,\nLaid down the rules for telling which of dreams\nWould be fulfilled, and of foreboding sounds\nThe mystery unfolded. Then I taught\nWhat sights are ominous to wayfarers.\nI showed which of the birds that wing the heavens\nWere lucky, which unlucky, and what were\nTheir loves and hatreds and foregatherings.\nThen what the flesh of victims signified,\nOf its appearances which pleased the gods,\nHow shaped, how streaked each part behoved to be,\nAnd the burnt offerings on the altar laid,\nThighs wrapped in fat and chine. I read the signs\nOf sacrificial flames unread before.\nMore yet I did; the wealth that lurks for man\nIn earth's dark womb,--gold, silver, iron, brass,--\nWho was it brought all this to light but I?\nAll others lie who would the honour claim.\nIn one short sentence a long tale is told\nAlone Prometheus gave all arts to man.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nTake heed; be not to mortals overkind,\nBut to thyself in this dire strait unkind.\nGood hope have I, one day to see thee stand\nFree from those bonds and mate the power of Zeus.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nNot yet that consummation fate ordains.\nA thousand years of agony must pass\nBefore my tortured frame puts off this chain.\nFor skill is weak matched with necessity.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWho, then, is pilot of necessity?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nFates three, and the unchanged Erinnyes.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAnd have these powers the mastery over Zeus?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nNot Zeus himself can baffle destiny.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat is his destiny but endless rule?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nI may not tell thee; importune me not.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nDread is the secret that thou hidest thus.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nThink of some other question; this to tell\nThe time is not yet ripe; deep in my breast\nThe secret must be buried; thus alone\nMay I from chains and tortures be set free.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_PROMETHEUS DEFIES ZEUS_.\n\nLINES 928-1114.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nYet, yet shall Zeus, for all his proud self-will,\nBe humbled. On a wedlock he is bent\nWhereof the fateful offspring shall one day\nHurl him from sovereignty to nothingness,\nAnd so fulfil the curse old Chronos spake,\nWhen from his immemorial throne he fell.\nAnd this his doom how to escape not one\nOf all the gods can rede him saving I.\nBut to me all is known. Then let him sit\nTriumphant while his thunders roll through heaven,\nAnd his hand grasps the flaming thunderbolt;\nAll his artillery shall not save its lord\nFrom utter shame and ruin bottomless.\nSuch the antagonist himself arrays\nAgainst himself, dread and invincible,\nOne who a fiercer than the lightning's flame,\nA louder than the thunder's peal shall find,\nAnd wrest the truncheon that makes earth to quake,\nPoseidon's trident, from its wielder's hand.\nWrecked on misfortune's rock, he then shall know\nHow high it is to reign, to serve how low.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThy wish is father to thy prophecy.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nMy wish is one with destiny's decree.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThink'st thou that Zeus will e'er his master find?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nAy! and a load harder than mine to bear.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nDost thou not fear to cast such words at Zeus?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nWhat should I fear when I must never die?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBut Zeus may yet enhance thine agony.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nPrepared for all, his malice I defy.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n'Tis wise to bow to the inevitable.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nCringe, if thou wilt, sue, bend the knee to power.\nLittle reck I of Zeus. Then let him work\nHis tyrant will for his allotted span.\nNot long shall he be monarch of the gods.\nBut lo! the Almighty's henchman I behold,\nThat errands bears for this new dynasty;\nHis lacqueyship must some new fiat bring.\n\n(_Enter_ HERMES.)\n\nHERMES.\n\nThou of the crafty soul and bitter tongue,\nSinner, that did'st betray to mortal man\nThe attributes of gods, stealer of fire,\nThe Father bids thee tell what wedlock this\nThat thou dost boast shall hurl him from his throne.\nSpeak plain, Prometheus, and take heed that I\nHave not a second journey, for such shifts,\nAs well thou seest, turn not the heart of Zeus.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nHigh are the words and full of majesty\nFor him that runs the errands of the gods.\nNew are ye, new to rule, and deem your tower\nOf puissance proof against calamity.\nYet therefrom two lords I have seen cast out;\nA third, him that now reigns, cast out shall see\nMost quickly and most foully. Think'st thou I\nWill crouch before these gods of yesterday?\nFar, far from me that thought of shame. Do thou\nThe way thou camest measure back with speed,\nFor to thy question I give answer none.\n\nHERMES.\n\nIt was by such self-will before displayed,\nThat thou did'st pluck these woes upon thy head.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nMy woes, how great so e'er, I would not change\nFor servitude like thine; of that be sure.\n\nHERMES.\n\nBetter, thou think'st, be bondsman to this rock\nThan be the faithful pursuivant of Zeus.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\n'Tis meet the scorner should be met with scorn.\n\nHERMES.\n\nThou seem'st to revel in thy present lot.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nRevel! I would that I could see my foes\nThus revelling, of whom I count thee one.\n\nHERMES.\n\nLayest thou the blame on me of thy mischance?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nI hate, without exception, all the gods\nWho my good deeds with injury requite.\n\nHERMES.\n\nThy words bespeak no common sickness thine.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nIf hating foes be sickness, I am sick.\n\nHERMES.\n\nThou wert past bearing wert thou prosperous.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nAlas!\n\nHERMES.\n\nZeus knows not how to say Alas!\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nTime in its course can teach us anything.\n\nHERMES.\n\nYet thee it has not taught to rule thy tongue.\n\nPROMETHEUS..\n\nNo, else I had not parleyed with a slave.\n\nHERMES.\n\nIt seems thou wilt not tell what Zeus demands.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nWere I his debtor I the debt would pay.\n\nHERMES.\n\nAs though I were a child thou twittest me.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nArt thou not sillier than a silly child,\nTo think that I will tell thee what thou ask'st?\nNo torture does Zeus know, he has no rack\nBy which he can my secret wrest from me,\nTill from these cruel bonds I am released.\nLet him hurl lightnings with his red right hand,\nLet him with whirling snow and earthquake shock,\nConfound and wreck this universal frame,\nNever shall he constrain me to reveal\nThe child of fate that hurls him from his throne.\n\nHERMES.\n\nLook, will this insolence amend thy lot?\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nI have well looked, and fixed is my resolve.\n\nHERMES.\n\nBow thy proud soul, insensate wretch, and do\nWhat wisdom bids in thine extremity.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nWaste no more words, thou dost but chide the sea;\nDream not that I can be o'erawed by Zeus,\nThat I will from my manhood derogate\nAnd sue to him that from my soul I hate,\nWith womanish uplifting of my hands,\nFor liberation from these fetters.--Never!\n\nHERMES.\n\nMethinks I spend my eloquence in vain,\nFor all my prayers nor melt nor move thy heart.\nLike a raw colt that pulls against the reins,\nTaking the bit between his teeth, art thou.\nAnd yet thy mettle will but weakness prove;\nFor dogged resolution by itself,\nWith wisdom unallied, is impotence.\nSee if thou wilt not to my words give ear,\nWhat stormy billows of resistless woe\nWill overwhelm thee. First the Almighty Sire\nWill with his thunder cleave this beetling rock,\nAnd bury thee beneath its shattered base,\nWithin its stony arms enfolding thee;\nAnd many an age shall pass ere thou return\nTo daylight. Then the winged hound of Zeus,\nThe ravening eagle with devouring maw,\nShall deeply trench thy quivering flesh and come,\nDay after day, an uninvited guest,\nTo feast upon thy ulcerated heart.\nOf this thy agony expect no end\nUntil some god appears to take on him\nThy load of suffering, and for thee descend\nTo the dark depths of the dread under-world.\nAdvise thee then, and deem not that my words\nAre feigned, for I in bitter earnest speak.\nThe lips of the Almighty cannot lie;\nEach word they utter surely is fulfilled.\nUse then thy forecast and be circumspect,\nNor o'er good counsel let self-will prevail.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAs seems to us, Hermes has spoken well,\nIn that he redes thee put away self-will,\nAnd take far-sighted prudence to thy heart.\nGive ear; for one so wise to err were shame.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nWell known beforehand was to me\nThe purport of this embassy.\nHis foe am I, he is my foe,\nAnd I his worst can undergo.\nThen let his forked lightnings flash,\nHeaven with his pealing thunder crash:\nLet him the wild winds loose and make\nEarth to her deep foundation shake;\nBid the swoll'n waves, by tempest driven,\nMount up and drench the stars of heaven;\nAnd let my helpless form be hurled\nHeadlong to the dark under-world\nMidst raging wreck of earth and sky.--\nThere ends his power, I cannot die.\nHERMES.\n\nMadness it is inspires thy thought.\nThy words are words of one distraught.\nWhat here is wanting that can be\nSure token of insanity?\nBut now, ye ocean nymphs whose eyes\nWeep for yon sinner's agonies,\nGo hence, the heavens begin to lower,\nGo hence, or with its awful stour\nThe thunder will your souls o'erpower.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nGo hence; good Hermes, change thy rede\nAnd I will to thy words give heed.\nBut ne'er to me such counsel name\nAs e'en to think upon were shame,\nWhate'er Prometheus may betide,\nBe mine to suffer at his side.\nOf all foul things abhorred by me\nThe most abhorred is perfidy.\n\nHERMES.\n\nLay then to heart what now I say,\nAnd think not in destruction's day\nOn fortune's spite the blame to throw,\nOr say that Zeus has wrought your woe.\nWhen thou hast rushed into the net\nOf doom for fate by folly set,\nThou wilt thy just reward have met.\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\nNow the dread hour has come: earth reels,\nThrough heaven the crashing thunder peals,\nForked lightnings blaze about the sky,\nThe sand in clouds is whirled on high;\nFrom east, from west, from south, from north,\nThe winds in mad career rush forth,\nAnd elemental battle join;\nThe welkin mingles with the brine;\nUpon me comes in flood and fire\nThe blast of the Almighty's ire.\nLook, holy mother, on this sight;\nLook on it, Aether, source of light,\nSee justice overborne by might.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PERSIANS\n\nXerxes has led the hosts of Asia on the fatal expedition against\nHellas. His mother, Atossa, remaining at Susa, has a fatal dream,\nwhich she recounts to the chorus of aged Persians.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_ATOSSA'S DREAM_.\n\nLINES 178-216.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nBy dreams I have been haunted every night,\nSince with his armament my son went forth\nTo smite the land of the Ionians.\nYet never dream has come so startling clear\nAs last night's vision; let me tell it thee:--\nMethought two women, beauteously attired,\nThe robes of one in Persian fashion wrought.\nThose of her mate in Dorian, met my view.\nIn stature they surpassed all womankind;\nPeerless their forms; sisters they were in blood.\nThe heritage and dwelling-place of one\nWas Hellas, of the other Asia.\nBetween these two methought a strife arose,\nWhich when my son perceived, he checked their wrath\nAnd calmed them, and beneath his chariot's yoke\nHe led them both, and o'er their necks the rein\nHe stretched. Then of her trappings one seemed proud\nAnd to the bit her mouth obedient lent.\nBut her companion, like a restive steed,\nThe harness broke, and, heeding not the bit,\nO'erthrew the car and snapped the yoke in twain.\nMy son falls, and his sire Darius comes\nTo aid and comfort him, whom when he sees,\nXerxes his garments rends in sign of woe.\nSuch was my dream. When morning came I rose,\nAnd first the night's pollution purged away\nWith purifying waters, then I sought\nThe altar, with my sacrificial train\nTo lay the gift, which turns the wrath divine,\nOf honeyed meal before the powers who save.\nBehold an eagle flying in affright\nTo Phoebus' shrine; fear struck me mute, my friends.\nThen lo! a falcon on the eagle swoops,\nAssails him with his wings and tears his head\nWith angry talons, while the mightier bird\nCowers unresisting. Awful 'twas to see,\nAwful it is for you to hear. My son,\nIf well he fares, will boundless glory win,\nIf ill--yet he no reckoning owes the state;\nLet him but live and he is master here.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_SALAMIS_.\n\nThe battle narrated by a Persian coming from the scene.\n\nLINES 251-473.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAlas! ye cities all of Asia,\nAlas! thou Persia, treasure-house of wealth,\nHow at one stroke has your prosperity\nBeen overthrown and Persia's glory lost!\nIll-luck has he that evil tidings brings,\nYet needs must I my tale of woe unfold.\nPersians, our host has perished utterly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\nATOSSA.\n\nO'erwhelming sorrow has long held me mute.\nDisaster such as this transcends all thought,\nBars all enquiry, chokes all utterance.\nAnd yet we mortals must misfortune bear\nWhen heaven ordains. Then, though thy heart be\nwrung,\nCalm thee and tell us all, that we may know\nWho of our warriors lives, whom we must mourn\nAmong our chiefs, as having by his death\nLeft void the station of his high command.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nXerxes himself lives and beholds the sun.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nThy word is sunshine to my sorrowing house;\nA cheerful day after a dismal night.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nArtembares, that led ten thousand horse,\nLies slain upon the rough Silenian shore;\nAnd Dadaces, that led a thousand more,\nPierced by a spear plunged headlong from his barque;\nAnd Tenagon, Bactria's true son and pride,\nLies on the wave-washed beach of Ajax' Isle.\nLileus, Arsames, Argestes too,\nRound the dove-haunted island drifting, struck\nIts girdling rocks on fell disaster's day.\nMatallus, that from Chrysa came, has fallen,\nHe that dark horsemen thrice ten thousand led;\nThe flowing beard that graced his cheek in gore\nSteeped unto crimson turned its russet hue.\nArabian Magos, Bactrian Artames,\nDie in a strange land, never to return;\nAnd Tharybis, of five times fifty sail\nCommander, Lyrna's son, with his fair face\nBy foul mischance of war has been laid low.\nWhile, bravest of the brave, Syennesis,\nCilicia's admiral, who to the foe\nMost trouble gave, has met a glorious doom.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nAlas! this overtops the height of woe;\nFor Persia naught remains but shame and wail.\nBut now take up thy story, let me hear\nWhat was the number of the Hellenic fleet,\nThat thus it dared our Persian armament\nIn battle with encountering prows to brave.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nKnow that if numbers could have gained the day\nVictory was ours, for the Hellenic fleet\nCounted in all but thrice a hundred sail,\nOf which were ten for swiftness set apart.\nBut with a thousand galleys Xerxes came--\nHis muster-roll I know--whereof the ships\nFor swiftness picked two hundred were and seven.\nThink you herein ours was the weaker side?\nSome deity against us turned the scale,\nAnd brought confusion on our armament,\nThe powers of Heaven for Pallas' city fight.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nHas Athens then escaped the avenger's hand?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHer walls are scatheless while her men remain.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nRecount then how began the naval fight.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nLady, the origin of all our woes\nWas the appearance of some evil power.\nA man of Hellas from the Athenian fleet\nCame forth unto thy son, King Xerxes, said\nThat, when the darkling shades of night came on,\nHis countrymen would flee, leaping aboard\nTheir ships, each as he might, to save their lives.\nWhich when King Xerxes heard, suspecting not\nThe Hellene's treachery nor the spite of heaven,\nHe gives this order to his admirals:--\nAs soon as daylight faded from the earth,\nAnd darkness overspread the face of heaven,\nIn three divisions our main force to range,\nBarring each outlet and each water-way,\nAnd with the rest to circle Ajax' Isle;\nAll being warned that if the Hellenes found\nA part unguarded and escaped their doom,\nEach with his head should pay the penalty.\nThis fiat he with heart uplift sent forth,\nAs little knowing what the gods ordained.\nObedient to the word, our seamen all\nPrepared their evening meal, then every man\nIn order to the rowlock lashed his oar.\nSoon as the light of evening died away\nAnd night came on, each man who plied the oar\nWent to his ship with all the men-at-arms,\nAnd the word passed along the lines of war.\nThen they put forth, each in his place assigned,\nAnd through the live-long night the captains kept\nOur weary seamen toiling at the oar.\nSo passed the hours of darkness, yet the fleet\nOf Hellas showed no sign of stealthy flight.\nBut when the white steeds of returning day\nSuffused the land and sea with orient light,\nFrom the Hellenic fleet the hymn of war\nPealed forth in unison, and echo loud\nRang out in answer from the rocky isle.\nAmazement on the host of Asia fell\nAnd consternation, for no thought of flight\nWas in that solemn chant, but courage high,\nDesire of battle, hope of victory.\nThen did the trumpet, thrilling, fire all hearts.\nThe word was given, and with concordant sweep\nTheir dashing oars at once upturned the brine,\nAnd soon their whole armada was in sight.\nThe right wing first came forth in fair array,\nThe whole fleet followed and the shout was raised\nThrough all the lines, \"On, sons of Hellas, on;\nOn, for the freedom of your fatherland,\nYour wives, your children, your forefathers' graves,\nThe temples of your gods; all are at stake.\"\nIn answer rang on our side, loud and wide,\nThe Persian war-cry. Time to lose was none.\nAt once, encountering with their brazen beaks\nThe squadrons met. A ship of Hellas first\nCharged a Phoenician galley and stove in\nHer stern-works; general then the onset grew.\nAt first the prowess of our Persian host\nMade head, but, crowded in the narrow strait,\nOur galleys, powerless mutual aid to lend,\nDashed on their consorts with their brazen beaks,\nAnd swept each other's banks of oars away.\nMeanwhile the watchful foe, surrounding them,\nCharged on the rout; ship after ship went down\nBefore him, and the sea was lost to sight\nBeneath the drifting wrecks and floating dead.\nThen all resistance ended, and our ships\nPlied one and all their oars in panic flight.\nThe foe, as 'twere a haul of tunny fish,\nWith splintered oars and fragments of the wreck\nAssailed and slaughtered them; the waters rang\nWith mingled cries of death and victory,\nTill night's dark veil descending closed the scene.\nThe sum of our disasters, though I spoke\nFor ten long days, I never could unfold.\nKnow in a word, so vast a multitude\nHas never fallen in one disastrous day.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nAlas! a huge wave of calamity\nHas broken on our universal realm.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThou art but half way through this tale of woe,\nFor a disaster on our army fell\nWhich twice outweighed all this that I have told.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nCan fortune's spite what thou hast told surpass?\nGo on, recount this new calamity\nWhich in thy estimation outweighs all.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThe very flower of all our Persian host,\nThe trusted pillars of our monarchy,\nHave met a piteous and a shameful end.\n\nATOSSA.\n\nAh! woe is me for this dire history.\nRecount, then, how our noblest warriors fell.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAn isle there is in face of Salamis,\nSmall and without a haven, on whose strand\nDance-loving Pan his measure often treads.\nThither the King despatched these chosen bands\nThat when from sinking ships crews swam ashore,\nThey of their foes might make an easy prey,\nAnd their friends rescue from a watery grave,\nIll the event foreseeing. For when heaven\nGave the Hellenes victory on the sea,\nAt once their bodies they in armour sheathed,\nLeaped from their galleys forth, and all the isle\nWith arms encircled. Outlet for escape\nOur hopeless bands had none. A ceaseless storm\nOf stones was rained upon them, and the shafts,\nWhistling from many a bowstring, scattered death.\nAt last, combining in one charge, the foe\nFell on them, stabbed them, hacked them limb from limb,\nNor stayed the butchery till the last was slain.\nXerxes, when he such utter ruin saw\nFrom the high throne where, on an eminence\nHard by the sea, he overlooked the scene,\nSent forth a piercing cry and rent his clothes;\nThen gave his troops the order to retreat\nAnd headlong took to flight. Now thou dost know\nThe harvest and the aftermath of woe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES.\n\n\nThe unnatural brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, are competitors for\nthe lordship of Thebes. Eteocles is in possession. Polynices, having\nmarried the daughter of Adrastus, King of Argos, leads an army, raised\nby the help of his father-in-law, against Thebes.\n\nIn this army there are seven champions. The Argive army is drawn out\nin array against the city in seven divisions, each division facing one\nof the seven gates of Thebes, and with a champion at its head. The\nchampions are described to Eteocles by a Theban, who has been sent to\nwatch the movements of the enemy. Under the name of Amphiaraus lurks a\ndescription of Aristides \"the just,\" the head of the conservative\nparty to which Aeschylus belonged, whose conscientiousness and\nmoderation are obliquely contrasted with the revolutionary violence\nof the ultra-democratic party headed by Themistocles. The chorus\nconsists of Theban maidens.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE CHAMPIONS._\n\nLINES 370-673.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThe order of our foemen you shall hear,\nAnd at which gate each champion has his post.\nTydeus stands ready at the Proetian gate,\nFuming, for still the seer forbids to ford\nIsmenus, since the omens are not fair.\nThereat the chieftain, mad with warlike rage\nAs is a snake with heat at noonday, raves;\nAnd on the prudent seer Oeclides heaps\nTaunts of faint-heartedness and craven fear.\nWhile thus he storms, wild on his helmet waves,\nThe shaggy crest threefold, and on his shield\nThe brazen bells ring out a fearful note.\nUpon that shield a proud device he wears,\nA firmament all luminous with stars,\nWhile in the centre shines the moon full-orbed,\nEmpress of constellations, eye of night.\nThus in his boastful panoply he stalks\nAlong the river panting for the fray,\nAs a proud charger at the trumpet sound\nFrets, paws the earth, and flecks his bit with foam.\nThink whom thou hast to cope with this dread chief,\nWho of that gate unbarred shall warder be.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nMy spirit quails at no proud panoply.\nEscutcheons wound not, nor will waving crests\nOr clashing bells bite without thrust of spear.\nThis night of which thou tellest on his shield,\nAlbeit it blaze with all the stars of heaven,\nMay to the bearer's self prove ominous;\nFor if death's night should fall upon his eyes\nHis boastfulness will turn to prophecy,\nAnd his device will have foreshown his doom.\nTo cope with Tydeus and that post to guard,\nI send the gallant son of Astacus,\nWhose noble blood is loyal to the rule\nOf honour and abhors vainglorious words,\nWhose chivalry fears nothing but reproach,\nSprung from that remnant of the Earth-born race,\nWhich the sword spared, a true son of the soil,\nMelanippus. Ares' hand the die will cast,\nBut nature sends our soldier to the field\nTo drive the invader from his mother-land.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHeaven shield our country's champion with its might,\nHim who will combat for the right,\nAnd guard our warriors all from perils of the fight.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nGood fortune on thy chosen warder wait.\nBefore the Electran gate stands Capaneus,\nWhose giant frame o'ertops e'en Tydeus' self.\nHis vaunts are more than mortal, and he hurls\nAgainst our towers threats which may heaven forfend.\nBe it the will of heaven or not, he vows\nThat he will storm this town, nor Zeus himself\nWith red right hand shall scare him from his prey.\nOf lightnings or of thunderbolts he recks\nNo more than of the rays of noonday sun.\nFor his device he bears a naked man\nWith burning torch in hand, whose legend says\nIn golden letters, \"I will fire this town.\"\nBethink thee whom thou hast this chief to mate,\nWho without quailing will his vaunts withstand.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nWhy, here we have gain added unto gain.\nWhen pride and folly in the heart abide,\nThe tongue fails not their presence to betray.\nCapaneus threatens what his hand would do,\nScorning the gods, and with unchastened lips,\nMadly exulting, vents against high heaven\nAnd heaven's high king his swelling blasphemies.\nSurely I trust that on his impious head\nThe lightning shall be launched more fiery far\nThan are the rays of any noonday sun.\nTo meet him with his braggart menaces\nStout Polyphontus goes, a gallant soul,\nWho well can hold the post, so Artemis\nAnd all protecting gods his arm will aid.\nTell us whose lot is at another gate.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nPerish the man who would lay low our towers;\nSmite him with lightning, kindly powers,\nEre he can storm our home and spoil our virgin bowers.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHear, then, who has his post at the next gate.\nEteocles is his name, him the third lot,\nForth from the brazen helmet leaping, set\nTo lead his band against the Eastern gate.\nThere to and fro he wheels his fiery steeds,\nThat pant in their caparisons to charge\nThe portal, and with snorting nostrils proud\nMake uncouth music through their mouth-pieces.\nNor lowly the device upon his shield:\nA man-at-arms is on a ladder seen\nScaling the wall of a beleaguered town,\nAnd underneath the vaunting legend dares\nAres himself to beat back the assault.\nAgainst this champion you must bid go forth\nOne that can save our town from slavery.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nHe goes--is gone, with victory on his helm;\nA chief whose boasting is in deeds, not words,\nMegareus, of earth-born lineage, Creon's son.\nHim shall no snortings of impetuous steeds\nScare from the gate, but either with his blood\nHe will repay the earth that gave him life,\nOr both the warriors and the town to boot\nBear off and with the spoils adorn his home.\nGive us some more vainglory; stint not speech.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nGood luck with him that guards my city go,\nIll luck with the o'erweening foe.\nHigh is their boast; may Zeus, the avenger, lay them low.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAt the fourth gate, where stands Athene's fane\nOf Onke hight, another chief appears,\nTowering with giant bulk--Hippomedon.\nBroad as a threshing-floor his buckler is,\nAnd terror seized me as he whirled it round.\nNor was it any common craftsman's hand\nThat wrought the emblem which that buckler bears,\nA Typhon vomiting with fiery mouth,\nBlack clouds of smoke, the wavering mate of fire.\nAnd all around his hollow buckler's rim\nA coil of twining snakes is riveted.\nLoud is his battle-cry. By Ares fired\nHe like a Maenad storms and raves for fight.\nAgainst this champion's onset guard thee well;\nAlready rout is threatened at the gate.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nThe deity herself that has her fane\nHard by the gates, abhorring insolence,\nWill ward this deadly serpent from her brood.\nBut as our man, valiant Hyperbius,\nThe son of Oenops, to the lists has gone,\nReady at need to brave the risks of war,\nIn form, in spirit, and in arms alike\nReproachless. Hermes well has matched the pair.\nFor as each champion is the other's foe,\nSo are the gods that on their shields they bear:\nHippomedon has Typhon breathing fire,\nBut on the buckler of Hyperbius\nIs Zeus the unconquered, thunderbolt in hand;\nAnd who e'er knew the arm of Zeus to fail?\nSuch are the patron deities of whom\nThe weaker are the foe's, the mightier ours.\nSo will it fare with those they patronise,\nIf Zeus o'er Typhon has the mastery;\nFor Zeus, the saviour, on Hyperbius' shield\nBlazoned, will save his liegeman in the fight.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThe foe of Zeus bearing that form of hate,\nBy gods and mortals reprobate,\nThe hell fiend soon, I trust, shall fall before the gate.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nSo may it be, now to the fifth I come\nWhose station is at the Borraean gates,\nHard by the tomb that holds Amphion's dust.\nThis champion swears by what he higher deems\nThan god and dearer than his eyes, his spear,\nThat he will Cadmus' city storm and sack\nIn heaven's despite. So vows the wood nymph's son,\nThat fair-faced stripling, scarcely yet a man,\nFor on his cheek still blooms the down of youth.\nMarshal his mood and fierce his countenance,\nAnd all unlike the maiden name he bears.\nNor does he lack his share of boastfulness,\nFor on the shield that with its brazen round\nHis body fenced, he bore our city's shame,\nThe rav'ning Sphynx, in burnished effigy\nEmpaled, and grasping in her felon claws\nThe limbs of a Cadmean citizen;\nWhich on the bearer drew a shower of darts.\nBattle to huckster is not his intent,\nNor to have marched so far and marched in vain.\nHis name Parthenopaeus, Arcady\nHis home, Argos his nurse, whom to requite\nHe threatens that from which heaven save our towers.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nYes, only let their thoughts be paid them home\n[Footnote: Two lines in this speech appear to have been lost.]\nBy the just gods, they with their impious vaunts\nWill be consumed and perish utterly.\nTo cope with thy Arcadian goes a man\nModest in speech but nowise slack in deed,\nActor, his brother of whom last I spake,\nWho will not let a tongue without an arm\nWithin our gates rave to our overthrow,\nNor entrance give the foe, who on his shield\nTo flout us bears the hated effigy.\nHis Sphynx, midst rattling darts, will hardly thank\nHim that advanced her to our battlements.--\nHeaven grant that as I say the event may be.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThy tidings pierce my fluttering breast, and fright\nMakes all my tresses rise upright\nAt that fell foeman's vaunt; may heaven confound his spite.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nFive were accursed; one righteous man succeeds\nThe seer Amphiaraus, good and brave.\nHis post is at the Homoloian gate.\nHere he reproaches heaps on Tydeus' head,\nCalling him murderer and the public bane,\nLeader of Argos in all evil ways,\nThe Furies' pursuivant, henchman of death,\nThat has Adrastus to his ruin trained.\nThy brother too, stained by his father's fate,\nGreat Polynices, with accusing face\nTurned heavenward, he upbraids and thus he speaks:\n\"Certes a deed it is to please the gods,\nFair to recount and glorious to hand down,\nThus thy own city to lay low and raze\nHer temples with an alien soldiery.\nWhat stream can wash away a mother's curse?\nHow shall thy country, captive to a foe\nBy thee set on, requite thee with her love?\nFor me, this hostile land must be my tomb\nAnd be enriched with my prophetic bones.\nForward! I look for no inglorious grave.\"\nThus spake the seer as he before him threw\nHis glittering shield. On it was no device.\nForemost to be, not seem, was still his aim.\nHis soul is as a plough-land deep and rich,\nFrom which a harvest of good counsels grows.\nAgainst him send some worthy opposite.\nHe most is to be feared who fears the gods.\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nWoe worth the day that links the righteous man\nTo the dark fortunes of iniquity.\nIn all the world is nothing so malign,\nOf fruit so poisonous, as an evil friend.\nOne day shall ye behold the pious man,\nGoing on ship-board with an impious crew,\nSink amid sinners reprobate of heaven.\nAnother day shall ye behold the just,\nIn an outlawed and godless commonwealth,\nSnared like their fellows in the net of doom\nAnd struck by the avenging rod of heaven.\nAnd so this seer, this son of Oecle\u00ebs,\nA wise, just, blameless, and god-fearing man,\nA famous prophet, to an impious host\nAgainst his better judgment misallied\nAnd drawn to march with them whose bourne is hell,\nWith them must perish; such the stern decree.\nHardly, I think, he will assault the gate;\nNot that his heart will faint or arm will fail,\nBut that he knows he on this field must die,\nUnless Apollo's oracle prove false,\nWhich if he tells not, prudence seals his lips.\nYet shall our champion be stout Lasthenes,\nA churlish gate-ward to intruders he,\nAn aged head upon a youthful frame.\nQuick is his eye and nimble is his hand\nFrom the shield's cover to dart forth the spear.\nBut who shall win the gods alone can tell.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO hear our righteous prayer, ye heavenly powers,\nThe ruin be the foe's, not ours,\nAnd may the thunder smite him who would storm our towers.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThe chief whose post is at the seventh gate\nIs thine own brother; hear his direful prayers,\nHis imprecations on our commonwealth.\nHe prays that he may mount our battlements,\nBe there proclaimed our king, shout victory,\nMeet thee, and slay thee, and insult thee slain,\nOr, living, drive thee forth a banished man,\nDisgracing thee as thou hast him disgraced.\nWith such fell words and adjurations dire\nOf his paternal gods to hear his prayer,\nStrong Polynices makes the field resound.\nA shield he bears, fair-shaped and newly-wrought,\nWhereon a twofold emblem is empaled:\nA lady with a stately mien leads on\nThe golden likeness of a man-at-arms,\nThe legend says that Justice is her name\nAnd she is bringing back a banished man\nTo claim his native city and his home.\n[Footnote: Four lines, probably spurious, if not interpolated, are\nhere omitted.]\n\nETEOCLES.\n\nO madness of the wicked, heaven-abhorred!\nO hapless race of Oedipus my sire,\nAlas! a father's curse is here fulfilled.\nBut now away with tears, away with wails,\nLest a worse cause of lamentation come.\nFor Polynices, all too truly named,\n[Footnote: The last part of the name means _strife_.]\nSoon shall he know what his device portends,\nAnd whether golden letters on his shield,\nVaunt as they may, shall bring the boaster home.\nPerchance if Justice, virgin child of Zeus,\nWere in his thoughts and deeds, so it might be;\nBut neither when he issued from the womb,\nNor in his childhood's days, nor in his youth,\nNor since the beard has gathered on his chin,\nHas Justice e'er vouchsafed a word to him.\nNor now, when on his native soil he treads\nIn enmity, is Justice at his side.\nNor could the deity deserve her name\nIf she could be a miscreant's paramour.\nHerein I put my trust, and will myself\nAccept this combat; better right has none;\nChieftains alike we meet, brethren we are\nAnd deadly enemies. My armour, ho!\n\n\n\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\n\nThe only complete specimen of a trilogy extant is the \"Oresteia\" of\nAeschylus, comprising the \"Agamemnon,\" the \"Choephoroe\" (Mourners),\nand the \"Eumenides\" (Furies). In this series are presented the murder\nof Agamemnon on his return from the conquest of Troy, by his queen,\nClytemnestra, and her paramour, Aegisthus; the slaying of Clytemnestra\nand Aegisthus by the avenger of blood, Orestes, son of Agamemnon and\nClytemnestra, at the bidding of Apollo; the pursuit of Orestes as a\nmatricide by the Furies; and his final acquittal and restoration by\nthe favour of Apollo and Athene. The trilogy is full of political\nsentiment and allusion. The last piece, \"Eumenides,\" has a distinct\npolitical purpose. In the murder of Agamemnon in his home, after his\nreturn from his victory over the Asiatic enemies of Hellas, by\nAegisthus and Clytemnestra, the audience could hardly fail to see a\nparallel to the persecution of Cimon, the hero of the conservative\nparty to which Aeschylus belonged, after his victories over the\nPersians, by the leaders of the democratic party, Pericles and\nEphialtes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE FALL OF TROY ANNOUNCED AT MYCENAE, WHERE AGAMEMNON'S PALACE IS,\nBY BEACON FIRES._\n\nLINES 1-39.\n\nTHE WATCHMAN.\n\nGrant me, oh gods, deliverance from this toil,\nThis year-long watch, which, couched upon the roof\nOf the Atridae, dog-like I have kept,\nScanning the nightly gatherings of the stars,\nThose radiant potentates, that throned on high,\nLead on the changing seasons for mankind.\nAnd now I still am looking for the sign,\nThe beacon light which is to flash from Troy\nThe tidings of the city's fall, for so\nOrdains the will of our man-hearted queen.\nBroken my rest, my couch is drenched with dew,\nAnd by no pleasant dream is visited.\nIn place of slumber fear waits on me there,\nSo that my eyes can never close in sleep;\nAnd if to sing or whistle I essay,\nIn hope to charm away my drowsiness,\nStraightway I fall to weeping for this house,\nThat into evil hands of late has fallen.\nWould but the light, that happy tidings bears,\nShine through the dark to end our sufferings.\n_(Beacon light appears,)_\nOffspring of night, all hail! A glorious day\nThou dost to Argos bring, with many a dance\nAnd song in honour of this victory.\nJoy! joy!\nI go to call on Agamemnon's queen\nTo leave her couch, and forthwith in her halls\nBid the glad voice of jubilation rise\nTo greet this beacon fire. If true it be\nThat Troy is taken, as the light proclaims,\nMy watch the highest throw of fortune's dice\nHas cast, and with my lords all must be well.\nNo more I say, a heavy curb is laid\nUpon my lips; these walls, if they had voice,\nWould tell their secret; as for me, I speak\nTo those who know, to others I am mute.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENIA._\n\nThe chorus recounts the sacrifice of Iphigenia, one of the train of\nhorrors connected with the doom of the house of Atreus.\n\nLINES 177-240.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWind-bound and suffering dearth, the Achaean fleet\nO'er against Calchis lay.\nOn Aulis' tide-washed shore,\nWhile from the Strymon gales,\nBearing delay and famine on their wing,\nBane of the mariner,\nWasting both hull and rope,\nWere wearing out the flower of Argive youth.\nThen did the seer proclaim\nFor that unwelcome wind\nA new and cruel cure\nIn name of Artemis.\nWhich, hearing, the Atridae with their staves\nSmote on the ground and wept.\n\nThen spake the elder King:\n\"To disobey were dire,\nYet dire it is to slay\nMy child, the pride and beauty of my home,\nAnd at the altar stain\nA father's hand with blood of virgin sacrifice.\nWhich way is not despair?\nHow can I prove disloyal to the host,\nAnd this alliance lose?\nIf for this sacrifice of virgin life,\nThe wind to lay, heaven calls\nSo sternly, I obey.\"\n\nFate's yoke when he had donned,\nOver his spirit came\nA dark, unholy change;\nThenceforth he doffed all pity and remorse.\nFrom the heart of man delusion strong,\nParent of evil, casts out virtuous fear.\nUnmoved, he slew his child a war to aid\nWaged for a woman's wrong\nUpon the fleet's behalf.\nHer prayers, her calling on her father's name,\nHer virgin youth,\nThose royal warriors held of no account.\nPrayer said, her father bade the ministers\nLift her that, fainting, in her robes sank down\nUpon the altar, as it were a kid,\nAnd guard upon her beauteous lips to set\nOf forceful silence, lest\nA curse might issue from them on the house.\nLetting her saffron veil fall on the ground,\nShe smote each minister of sacrifice\nWith piteous glances, mute\nAs is a picture, and in vain essayed\nTo speak. She many a time\nIn hospitable hall\nHad sung, and with her innocent, chaste voice\nWished to her sire health and prosperity.\nWhat then ensued I saw not nor recount.\nThe seer's behest was done.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE MEETING OF AGAMEMNON AND CLYTAEMNESTRA._\n\nLINES 828-947.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nFriends, aged citizens of Argos here,\nI will not shrink from speaking of my love,\nSince years wear off a woman's bashfulness.\nMyself alone can tell the life I led\nWhile my lord lay before the walls of Troy.\nSad, passing sad, the lot of woman left\nLorn of her consort in the lonely home,\nAnd hearing day by day reports of ill;\nEvery new comer bringing evil news,\nAnd the last worse than him that went before.\nHad my lord met all wounds that rumour gave,\nHis body had been but one net of wounds;\nHad he, as oft as rumour blew him, died,\nHe must have been a three-lived Geryon,\nAnd thrice put on a shroud of funeral earth\nAbove him, reckoning not the earth below,\nThrice dead, and in three several graves interred.\nDriven to despair mid all these dark reports,\nBy hanging oft I sought to end my days,\nAnd was by others saved and forced to live.\nHence is it that thy child, pledge of our love,\nOrestes, is not here to greet his sire,\nAs had been meet. Let not that trouble thee.\nStrophios the Phocian took the boy in trust,\nThine ancient friend in arms, forewarning us\nThat troublous times might come, should aught befall\nMy lord, and the unbridled multitude\nO'erthrow the senate, as mankind are wont\nTo trample on the fallen. 'Tis truth I tell.\nThe very fountains of my tears are dry,\nSorrow no drop hath left, my eyes are sore\nThrough my night watchings for the beacon light\nThat should bring news of thee, but brought it not.\nA gnat's light whirring broke the dream of thee\nThat in an hour compressed an age of woe.\nNow all this past, from carking sorrow free,\nI hail my lord, the watchdog of our fold,\nThe ship's main stay, the pillar that upbears\nA lofty roof, dear as an only child,\nWelcome as land to seamen tossed at sea,\nAs cheerful day after the stormiest night,\nAs well-spring to the thirsty traveller.\nSweet after careful stress is careless ease.\nSuch is my salutation to my lord,\nWhich should not draw on us the evil eye.\nEnough we've borne already. Now, beloved,\nStep from thy chariot; yet not on the earth\nShall Ilium's glorious conqueror set his foot.\nHaste, haste, ye handmaidens, to whom the charge\nWas given to spread the ground with tapestry,\nAnd make a purple pathway for my lord,\nWhom justice brings to his unlooked for home.\nFor aught beside, care, lovingly awake,\nThe gods so willing, shall good order take.\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nDaughter of Leda, guardian of my home,\nThy speech is as my absence, long drawn out.\nWell measured praise from other lips must come;\nI pray thee stint thy woman's blandishments,\nNor, like some proud barbarian's minion vile,\nCrawl to my feet with abject flatteries.\nI would not have thy draperies on me draw\nThe evil eye; to gods such state belongs,\nNot mortals; for a mortal thus to tread\nOn broidery were to tempt the wrath of heaven.\nPay to me honours human, not divine.\nFoot-cloths or broidery need I none to tell\nWhat fame will voice aloud. Discretion still\nIs the best gift of heaven, and he alone\nIs truly blest who prospers to the end.\nLet but this fortune hold, I've naught to fear.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nYet herein yield to her that loves thee well.\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nKnow that I will not swerve from my resolve.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nIs it some vow, vowed in an hour of fear?\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nI well knew my own mind when thus I spoke.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nHad Priam conquered, what would he have done?\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nHe, certes, would have trod on tapestry.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nBe not affrighted by the tongues of men.\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nYet is the people's voice a mighty power.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nWho shrinks from envy dares not to be great.\n\nAGAMEMNON\n\nTo love contention is not womanly.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA\n\nYet the victorious can afford defeat.\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nDost thou, too, prize defeat as victory?\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nDefeat or victory, yield thee at my prayer.\n\nAGAMEMNON.\n\nSo be it, an thou wilt. Let some one loose\nMy sandals, lest if, proudly shod with these,\nI tread a path so costly, I may draw,\nPresumptuous, from above the evil eye.\nGreat shame it were our substance thus to waste,\nTrampling on costly web with sandaled feet.\nOf that enough. Now take this stranger in\n(_Pointing to Cassandra._)\nIn kindly wise; who gently use their power\nShall merit mercy in the eye of heaven.\nMisfortune, not misdoing, makes the slave.\nThis damsel, choicest flower of all we won,\nThe army's gift to me, have I brought home.\nNow let me, since my will has bent to thine,\nWalk over purple to my royal hall.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nThere is a sea, there is a boundless sea,\nAnd in its depths is gendered purple dye\nOf costliest kind for vestments numberless.\nOf this, the gods be thanked, our palace holds\nAbundance, want or stint is there unknown.\nPurple enow would I have gladly given\nTo trample in the mire, had oracles\nEnjoined to pay such ransom for thy life.\nWith thee unto the leafless trunk has come\nA leafy shelter from the dog-star's heat;\nSince thy return to thy beloved hearth,\nOur wintry frost shall yield to summer's sun,\nAnd coolness, in the heat that turns the grape,\nReign in the house whose head is there once more.\nZeus, father in whose hands all issues are,\nGive issue to thy counsels and my prayer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY._\n\nLINES 1149-1391.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nNow shall my oracle no more peer forth\nAs from her virgin veil a bashful bride;\nIt shall grow clearer as the sky is cleared\nBy the brisk wind, and like a sunlit wave\nShall mount the billows of calamity.\nNo more in riddles will I prophesy.\nFollow and bear me witness as I hunt,\nUpon the trail of immemorial crime.\nWithin this house a company abides,\nSinging in unison no mirthful strain,\nA band of revellers that, to fire its heart,\nHath quaffed, not wine, but blood of murdered men,\nThe Furies that shall never quit these gates.\nA hymn they sing, within the haunted hall,\nOf the primeval curse, and tell in turn\nWhat loathly vengeance paid a brother's shame.\n[Footnote: Alluding to the banquet of Thyestes.]\nSay, does my arrow miss or hit the mark?\nAm I a begging, babbling soothsayer?\nBear witness on thy oath how well I know,\nUntaught, the sinful record of this house.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat virtue hath an oath's solemnity\nTo make wrong right? Amazement fills my soul\nTo hear a stranger from beyond the sea\nThus hit the truth as though thou hadst been here.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nApollo bade me be a prophetess.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWas the god smitten with a mortal love?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nShame ever to this hour hath sealed my lips.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nProsperity is always delicate.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nA wooer he who well could touch my heart.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWere children then begotten of your love?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nI broke my plighted troth to Loxias.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhen thou already hadst received the gift?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nYea; I foretold my country all its woes.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHow was it Loxias failed to punish thee?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nMy punishment was ne'er to be believed.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nTo us what thou foreshow'st seems all too true.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nOnce more prophetic pangs come over me.\nMark ye those children on the palace there,\nIn aspect like the spectral shapes of dreams?\nMeseems they by a kinsman's sword were slain.\nSee, in their hands they bear a loathsome feast,\nThe piteous flesh of which their father ate.\nVengeance is coming, yonder in the lair\nA lion lurks, a coward skulking beast,\nPlotting against my late returned lord.\nMy lord, I say, for slavery is my doom.\nThe army's chief that o'erthrew Ilium\nKnows little what yon shameless paramour,\nAfter her long and so fair-seeming speech,\nIs bent to do in an accursed hour,\nLike a fell fiend lurking in ambush there.\nO crime of crimes, a woman slays her mate,--\nWhat can I call her? The most poisonous snake;\nA Scylla, with her lair among the rocks,\nLying in wait for luckless mariners;\nDeath's dam, against her kin implacably\nBreathing her venom. What a shout she raised\nOf exultation, as for battle won!\nShe feigns rejoicing at her lord's return.\nBelieve or disbelieve me; naught I care\nThat which must come, must come. Thou soon shalt see\nAnd rue the truth of this my prophecy.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThyestes, feasted with his children's flesh,\nShuddering, I understood, and am appalled\nAt hearing all so painted to the life.\nBut for the rest, I wander from the course.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nI say thou shalt see Agamemnon die.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHush, hapless maid, speak no ill-omened words.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nPlace for well-omened words this work has none.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNot if it come to pass, which heaven forfend.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nWhile thou art praying they prepare to smite.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhere is the man to do so foul a deed?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nIll hast thou understood my prophecy.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBy whom and how thy words have not revealed.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nAnd yet I know too well thy country's tongue.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSo do our prophets, yet their words are dark.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nAh, me! how fierce the fire, it fills my veins.\nSpare me, Apollo, god of Lycia, spare.\nYon lioness that, since her royal mate\nDeparted, with a caitiff wolf has lain,\nWill slay me, and as one that poison brews\nWill in the caldron cast her jealousy,\nAnd while she whets the knife to slay her lord\nSay she takes vengeance for his lawless love.\nWhy do I bear on me these mockeries,\nThis prophet's wand, this fillet round my neck?\nGo, lead the way to death; I follow soon;\nGo, and adorn some other curse than me.\nBehold Apollo's self is stripping me\nOf my prophetic garb, and in that garb\nAlready has he, with unpitying eyes,\nSeen me and mine the foeman's laughing-stock.\nI had to bear the name of tramp, be spurned\nAs a poor famished beggar on the street.\nAnd now the prophet to unprophet me\nHas led me into this decoy of death,\nWhere for the altars of my sire, the block\nOf butchery soon must my hot life-blood drink.\nYet shall we not fall unavenged of heaven.\nAnother minister of justice comes,\nHis sire's avenger on the womb that bore him.\nA wanderer banished from his native land,\nHe shall return to put the coping stone\nOn murder's pile; for so the gods have sworn,\nAnd his fall'n father's hand shall beckon him.\nBut why should I, forlorn, bemoan my fate,\nSince I have seen Ilium, my fatherland,\nFaring as it has fared, and they who dwelt\nTherein so worsted in the court of heaven?\nBe it accomplished, to my doom I go.\nHear me, ye gates of death, sure be the stroke,\nThat easily with no long agony\nMy blood may flow, and the last sleep be mine.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO maiden, thrice unhappy, yet inspired,\nIf truly, as thy long address imports,\nThou dost foresee thy fate, what bids thee go\nAs goes a doomed steer to the sacrifice?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nFriends, there is no escaping by delay.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAnd yet of times to die the last is best.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nThe day has come; naught shall I gain by flight.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nGreat-hearted maiden, strong is thy resolve.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nNot on the happy is such praise bestowed.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nYet to die gloriously is happiness.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nFather, alas, for thee and thy brave sons!\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHow now? What fearful object meets thine eye?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nAh, me! Ah, me!\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat means thy shriek? What phantom dost thou see?\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nThere is a smell of murder from that house.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNay, 'tis the smell of household sacrifice.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nIt is the odour of a charnel-house.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNo savour that of Syrian frankincense.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nI go my own and Agamemnon's dirge\nTo chant within the halls. Good-bye to life.\nStrangers, alas!\nNot like a foolish bird scared at the bush\nAm I. Bear witness, when I am no more,\nWhen for my woman's blood a woman dies,\nAnd for a man ill-wed a man is slain;\nWith my last breath I crave of ye this boon.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nI weep to see thee going to thy doom.\n\nCASSANDRA.\n\nOnce more I fain would speak; not to renew\nWeak wailings, but to call on yonder sun\nAnd bid him bring the avenger to requite\nThe cruel murderess of a poor weak slave.\nAlas! for man, if in his prosperous hour,\nFate faintly limns the shape of happiness,\nSoon comes the sponge and wipes the picture out;\nAnd sad is the beginning, worse the end.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY FULFILLED_.\n\nThe doorway of the palace opens and reveals Clytaemnestra within the\nportal standing over the corpse of Agamemnon. She has slain him with\nan axe in the bath, having entangled him in a sleeveless robe.\n\nLINES 1343-1554.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nMuch did I say before to serve the time\nWhich now to contradict I think no shame.\nHow else could hate encircle with its toils\nThe enemy that was a seeming friend,\nSo that the prey might not o'erleap the net?\nOld is the quarrel; over my revenge\nLong have I brooded, now it comes at last.\nHere where I stand the deed of death was done,\nAnd I so managed, I deny it not,\nThat he could neither fly nor fend the blow.\nAs he had been a fish I round him cast,\nLike a close net, a rich but deadly robe.\nTwice did I strike, twice did he groan, then sank;\nAnd as he lay another stroke I gave,\nTo make the lucky number, and commend\nHis soul to Hades, guardian of the dead.\nSo did his angry spirit pass away,\nWhile over me he threw a jet of blood,\nWhich gladdened me as doth the rain from heaven\nThe corn-field in the swelling of the ear.\nElders of Argos, hear! This have I done,\nAnd in this glory, take it as ye will.\nTo pour a glad libation on the corpse,\nDid piety permit, were more than just.\nHe mixed a bowl of curses for the house,\nAnd what he mixed himself came home to drink.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAmazement fills us at thy hardihood\nThat thus dost triumph o'er thy murdered lord.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nYe think to deal with a weak woman's heart,\nBut I, with soul unquailing, to your face\nTell you, approve or damn me as you may,\nHere Agamemnon lies, my lord that was,\nA corpse that is, the work of this right hand,\nIts righteous work. There is no more to say.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nLady, what baleful herb\nOf earth or potion dire\nDrawn from the flowing ocean, hadst thou drunk,\nThat on thee thou hast brought the public curse?\nThou hast cast off, cut off;\nThyself will be cast out,\nA thing of loathing to our citizens.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nYea, thy award to me is banishment,\nAnd execration, and the people's curse.\nBut no such measure didst thou mete this man\nWhen recklessly, as it had been a beast,\nWhile in his pastures sheep were numberless,\nHe sacrificed his child, the dearest child\nThat I had borne, to charm the Thracian gales.\nHim from the land to drive for his foul deed\nThy justice moved thee not. But now I come\nBefore the bar, the judge is merciless.\nI warn thee that thy threats are launched at one\nWho, if thou canst in equal combat win,\nWill yield; but, should heaven otherwise ordain,\nThou may'st too late be put to wisdom's school.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHigh, lady, is thy heart,\nAnd haughty is thy speech;\nThy soul with murder is intoxicate;\nUpon thy brow is the red stain of blood\nUnexpiated. Yet\nWilt thou, of aid bereft,\nAs thou hast struck, feel the avenging blow.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nHear while once more my solemn oath I pledge.\nBy the accomplished vengeance of my child,\nBy those dread powers whose sacrifice lies there,\nI look not to see fear within my halls,\nWhile on the hearth Aegisthus lights the fire\nAnd to his mate is true as he is now.\nWith him for shield I shall not be afraid.\nLow lies the man that did betray my love,\nThat toy of each Chryseis in the camp;\nAnd with him lies this captive soothsayer,\nHis faithful leman and his sea-mate too.\nFor what they did the pair have dearly paid.\nOne there ye see, the other like a swan,\nWhen she had sung her dying melody,\nFell in her paramour's embrace and lent\nFresh relish to my feast of happiness.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWould that a death, painless, not lingering,\nWould on me bring the everlasting sleep,\nSince my kind guard,\nThat for a woman's sake so much\nBraved, by a woman's hand has met his end.\nO Helen, thou for whom beneath Troy's wall\nMyriads were doomed to die,\nAt last through thee the gout\nOf blood which in this house\nWas uneffaced, fresh murder has begot.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nPray not for death to come\nIn ire at this my deed,\nWith Helen be not wroth\nBecause her murderous face\nMany a bold Danaan slew\nAnd woe unmeasured brought.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nFiend, that dost haunt the hall\nOf the Tantalidae,\nAnd in a woman showed\nA man's strength to my bane,\nSee how upon the dead,\nPerched like a raven dire,\nShe chants her impious strain.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nNow speakest thou aright,\nCalling upon the fiend\nThat raveneth this race.\nFrom him proceeds that lust\nCongenital of blood\nThat ever craves fresh gore.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nA demon dire and fell\nThou to this house\nWould'st in dark strain assign.\nAh, me! All comes from Zeus,\nOf all things source and cause,\nWithout whom naught befalls\nMankind. Of all this train\nOf woes, what was there not by heaven decreed?\nHow shall I wail thee, king,\nHow vent my loyal grief?\nIn this fell spider's web thou liest low,\nExpiring by a stroke\nAccursed as no freeman ought to lie,\nBy treachery struck down\nWith its two-handed axe.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nCharge not on me this deed.\nImagine not that I\nAm Agamemnon's queen.\nLike to the dead man's wife\nThe fiend that vengeance takes\nFor Atreus' ghastly feast\nHere hath repaid the debt,\nA man for infants slain.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nOh, whither can I turn,\nIn vain my mind I task.\nThe house thus wrecked, despair lies every way.\nI shudder at this pouring rain of blood,\nNo more by drops it falls.\nFate for some other murderous deed\nOn a new whetstone sharpens her knife's edge.\nWould earth had swallowed me\nEre in the silver vessel of the bath\nI saw my king laid low.\nWho will his funeral rites\nPerform? Wilt thou be able unabashed,\nHaving thy husband slain,\nTo wail for him, and to his injured shade\nRequital for such wrong\nBy unloved service pay?\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nNot unto thee belongs\nThis care. 'Twas we that slew,\nAnd we will bury him.\nNot from his house shall go\nHis mourning train.\nBy the swift-flowing stream\nOf lamentation his loved child,\nIphigenia, shall her father meet,\nEmbrace and fondly kiss.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHOEPHOROE\n\n\nElectra, the daughter of Agamemnon, has been living beneath the hated\ndomination of Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, the murderer and murderess\nof her father. Her brother Orestes, the avenger of blood and the hope\nof her house, has been living in banishment, while she has been\nlooking and longing for his return. At length he returns with his\nfaithful comrade Pylades, and intimates his presence by placing a lock\nof his hair as his offering on Agamemnon's tomb. Electra announces the\ndiscovery to the Chorus of Trojan women, who bear her libation for her\nto the tomb of her father, and from whom the play is named.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_ORESTES DISCOVERS HIMSELF TO ELECTRA._\n\nLINES 158-274.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nMy father's grave has drunk the holy wine;\nNow lend your ears to the strange news I bring.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSpeak on, my heart thrills with expectancy.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nI found this lock of hair upon the tomb.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWho was it, man or maid, that laid it there?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThis to divine were not so difficult.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nOld as I am on thy young lips I hang.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nFrom what head could the lock be cut but mine?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThey that should offer mourning locks are foes.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThis lock of hair is wondrous like in hue.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nLike to whose hair? 'Tis this I long to learn.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nLike, passing like, to hers that speaks to thee.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThink'st thou Orestes sent it secretly?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThe lock in hue is like no hair but his.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBut how could he adventure to come here?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nPerchance he sent the offering to his sire.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThis will not staunch the fountain of my woes,\nIf he is ne'er to set foot in our land.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nNot less through me a tide of passion rolled,\nAnd as it were an arrow pierced my breast,\nWhile from my eyes coursed down my thirsty cheeks\nThe gushing tears, till sorrow's fount was dry,\nAs on this lock I looked. No citizen\nOf ours could own it saving one alone;\nNor was it shred by her the murderess\nThat but usurps a mother's hallowed name,\nTo us, her children, so unmotherly.\nSurely to say what I would fain believe,\nThat this fair offering from Orestes comes\nDearest of men, I dare not, yet I hope.\nOh, would it had a voice to speak to me,\nAnd so to end distraction in my soul;\nThat I might cast it scornfully away,\nIf it were taken from a hated head.\nIf from a head I love, that it might pay\nWith me sad homage to my father's tomb.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThe heavenly powers on whom we call well know\nWith what a sea, like storm-tossed mariners,\nWe battle; yet, if destiny be kind,\nFrom a small seed a mighty tree may spring.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThen, for a second sign, foot-prints I find\nLike to my own in shape and measurement.\nFor there were two imprints, one of his own,\nThe other of a fellow-traveller's foot;\nAnd those of his own foot, compared with mine,\nIn their whole shape exactly correspond.\nI am all anguish and bewilderment.\n\nORESTES (_suddenly entering_).\n\nPray for whatever else thy soul desires,\nAnd may a like fulfilment crown the prayer.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat prayer of mine now have the gods fulfilled?\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhom thou didst yearn to see is now before thee.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhom I did yearn to see? What was his name?\n\nORESTES.\n\nOrestes, by thy craving lips pronounced.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIn what respect, then, has my prayer been heard?\n\nORESTES.\n\nThe bearer of that name beloved am I.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nStranger, is this some trick thou playest on me?\n\nORESTES.\n\nAn 'twere, I should conspire against myself.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nSure thou art sporting with my misery.\n\nORESTES.\n\nSporting with thine were sporting with my own.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAnd is it to Orestes' self I speak?\n\nORESTES.\n\nOrestes' self, whom seeing thou dost doubt\nThine eyesight, though a lock of hair or prints\nOf feet that tallied with thine own could raise\nMy apparition in thy fluttering heart.\nApply the lock which tallies with thy hair\nTo this my head from which it was cut off.\nLook on this robe, the work of thine own hand,\nAnd trace the figures which thy shuttle wrought.\nBut calm thee, let not joy distract thy soul,\nFor near of kin we know is far from kind.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nO hope and darling of my father's house,\nSeed of redemption, watered with my tears,\nTrust thy right arm; it shall win back thy home.\nThou art the fourfold object of my love:\nElectra has no father left but thee;\nNo mother--hateful she who bears that name;\nThou art to me in my lost sister's place;\nThe brother thou that dost my name uphold;\nOnly let might and justice and the king\nOf gods and men be with thee in the fight.\n\nORESTES.\n\nZeus, Zeus, look down on what is passing here,\nTake pity on the eagle's brood, whose sire,\nTrapped in the coils of a most deadly snake,\nWas stung to death and left his orphan brood\nA prey to hunger. For no strength have they\nTo bring the quarry home, as did their sire.\nIn me and my Electra here thou seest\nTwo eaglets of their sire alike bereft,\nAnd outcasts both from what was once their home.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHigh honour did our father pay to thee,\nRich gifts he gave thy shrine; his offspring gone,\nWho will be left to heap thy altars more?\nThy race of eagles lost, thou wilt have none\nTo be the herald of thy will to man.\nThis royal stock blasted, thou wilt have none\nTo tend thy shrine on days of sacrifice.\nWatch o'er us, and the house that now seems fallen\nPast hope, may to its ancient greatness rise.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nMy children, of your line sole trust and stay,\nBe silent lest your words be overheard,\nAnd borne by some loose babbler to the ear\nOf those in power, whom soon I hope to see\nLaid smouldering on the pitchy funeral pile.\n\nORESTES.\n\nMy trust is in Apollo's oracle\nThat bade me set forth on this enterprise,\nWith high command and threats of dire disease\nTo gripe my vitals if I failed to wreak\nVengeance upon my father's murderers,\nEnjoining me to slay as they had slain,\nTaking no fine as quittance for his blood.\nFor this was I to answer with my life.\nAnd as I would escape the penalties\n[Footnote: This passage is corrupt or dislocated, and perplexes the\ncommentators. I have tried to give the general sense.]\nThat injured and neglected ghosts demand;\nAs fell diseases that with cankering maw\nEat the distempered flesh from off the bones,\nMadness and panic fears that haunt by night;\nThen banishment from human intercourse;\nFrom the libation, from the loving cup,\nAnd from the altar, whence a father's wrath\nUnseen should drive the recreant; at the last\nDeath without honour and without a friend.--\nThink ye that I such oracles could slight?\nAnd if I did, the deed must still be done;\nFor many motives join to set me on:\nThe gods command, my murdered father calls\nFor vengeance, and my desperate need impels;\nAll bid me save our famous citizens,\nTroy's glorious conquerors, from the base yoke\nOf yonder pair of women; for his heart\nIs womanish, if not, we soon will know.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_CLYTAEMNESTRA PLEADS TO HER SON ORESTES FOR HER LIFE IN VAIN._\n\nLINES 860-916.\n\nSERVANT.\n\nAlas! my lord is slain, my lord is slain,\nMy lord is slain; Aegisthus is no more.\nHaste and unbar the woman's chamber, haste;\nBe stirring, or your aid will come too late.\nWhat, ho! what, ho!\nI shout unto the sleeping or the deaf.\nWhither has Clytaemnestra gone? What does she?\nNow is the queen on peril's sharpest edge,\nAnd like to fall by the avenger's sword.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nHow now? What means this shouting in the house?\n\nSERVANT.\n\nIt means that dead men kill and live men die.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nAh me! Too well I can thy riddle guess;\nBy treason as we slew, we shall be slain.\nFetch me the axe, which well this hand can wield,\nAnd we will strike for death or victory,\nFor to this mortal issue have we come.\n\nORESTES.\n\n'Tis thee I seek; thy leman has enough.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nAh me! Aegisthus, then, my love, is slain.\n\nORESTES.\n\nThy love is he? Then shalt thou share his tomb,\nAnd be his faithful consort to the end.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nOh, stay thy hand, my child, and spare this breast,\nOn which so often thou didst slumbering lie\nAnd suck with baby lips the milk of life.\n\nORESTES.\n\nSay, Pylades, shall nature's plea be heard?\n\nPYLADES.\n\nHalf of Apollo's best has been fulfilled;\nThink on the other half and on thine oath.\nBetter defy the world than brave the gods.\n\nORESTES.\n\nThou hast well spoken, and I do assent.\n\n(_To_ CLYTAEMNESTRA.)\n\nCome in; I'll lay thee at thy leman's side.\nHe to my father living was preferred,\nAnd now in death his partner thou shalt be,\nThe guerdon due to thy adulterous love.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nI nursed thee; let me at thy side grow old.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhat, dwell with thee, my father's murderess?\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nBlame destiny, my son, for what I did.\n\nORESTES.\n\nBlame destiny for what I now must do.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nHast thou no reverence for a mother's prayer?\n\nORESTES.\n\nThat mother ruthlessly cast off her child.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nNot cast thee off; but sent thee to a friend.\n\nORESTES.\n\nTwice was I sold, although a freeman born.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nWhat was the price that I received for thee?\n\nORESTES.\n\nTo tell thee in plain words I am ashamed.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nTell it, but tell thy sire's transgression too.\n\nORESTES.\n\nHome-keeping wives should not the toilers chide.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\n'Tis sad for wives to lie without their mates.\n\nORESTES.\n\nYet wives are fed by those that sweat abroad.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nIt seems, my child, thou wilt thy mother slay.\n\nORESTES.\n\nNot on my head but thine thy blood will be.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nStrike, and a mother's Furies follow thee.\n\nORESTES.\n\nA father's will, if I withhold the blow.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nDeaf as the grave is he to whom I wail.\n\nORESTES.\n\nAs died my father thou art doomed to die.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nMy womb too truly has a serpent borne.\n\nORESTES.\n\nNo lying prophet was thy dream of fear.\nUnnatural was thy deed, so be thy doom.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EUMENIDES\n\n\nThe ancient Council of the Areopagus, like other primeval councils,\nwas at once political and judicial. It was the venerable stronghold of\nthe old Athenian and conservative party to which Aeschylus belonged,\nand was at this time being attacked by the radical party under\nPericles and Ephialtes. To save it from its enemies by awakening\nnational sentiment on its behalf, Aeschylus presents it as the high\ncourt of justice selected on account of its supreme moral authority\ntotry the grand mythical case of Orestes arraigned by the Furies for\nmatricide. There is also a good word for the diplomatic connection\nbetween Argos, represented by Orestes, and Athens. Orestes by Apollo's\nadvice has appealed to the Areopagus. The court consists of Athenian\ncitizens. Athene in person presides. The Furies appear as the\naccusers. They form the Chorus, which in this case plays a part\nin the drama. Apollo appears as a witness for his accused votary,\nand as responsible for the act which he had commanded. The result is\nthe acquittal of Orestes by the presiding goddess. The proceedings are\nopened by Athene.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLINES 536-747.\n\nATHENE.\n\nHerald, proclaim good order through the host,\nThen let the loud Tyrrhenian trumpet's blast\nThrill forth its warning to the multitude.\n'Tis meet that while the judges take their seats\nAll citizens keep silence and give ear\nTo that which now and for all time to come\nI have ordained, that justice may be done.\n\nCHORUS OF FURIES.\n\n(_Seeing_ APOLLO _approach_.)\n\nRule, Lord Apollo, o'er thy own domain.\nWhat portion hast thou in this cause of ours?\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nFirst, as a witness in this cause I come,\nTo say this man with me took sanctuary,\nAnd that I cleansed him of the stain of blood.\nNext, as a party to this cause I come,\nSince I was the prime mover of the deed.\nCall on the cause, then, and let right be done.\n\nATHENE.\n\nThe cause is called, and the word rests with you.\n\n(_To the_ FURIES.)\n\nLet the accuser first be heard and lay\nThe cause before the court, for so is best.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nMany we are, yet brief our speech shall be;\nDo thou to questions plain, plain answer give;\nAnd tell us first, didst thou thy mother slay?\n\nORESTES.\n\nI slew my mother, and deny it not.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nOne bout, then, of our wrestling match is won.\n\nORESTES.\n\nToo soon thou boastest; not yet am I thrown.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNow must thou tell us how the deed was done.\n\nORESTES.\n\nI drew my sword and smote her that she died.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWho was it counselled thee, and set thee on?\n\nORESTES.\n\nHis oracle that is my witness here.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSayest thou the prophet counselled matricide?\n\nORESTES.\n\nHe did, and so far I repent me not.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThou wilt when in the judgment thou art cast.\n\nORESTES.\n\nNo fear have I; aid from the dead will come.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAid from the dead to thee, a matricide?\n\nORESTES.\n\nMy mother bore a double taint of crime.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHow doubly? let the judges understand.\n\nORESTES.\n\nShe slew her consort and my sire in one.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHer death has made her peace, but thou still liv'st.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhy did ye not pursue her while she lived?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBecause she was not kin to him she slew.\n\nORESTES.\n\nAm I of kin, then, to my mother's blood?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWretch, wast thou not beneath her girdle borne,\nAnd dar'st thou to forswear thy mother's blood?\n\nORESTES.\n\nApollo, now stand forth and testify.\nSay, was my mother rightly slain or not?\nThe deed itself is not by us denied;\nWhether't was rightly done or not, judge thou,\nThat I may plead thy sentence to this court.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nI will before this high Athenian court\nBear witness true: the prophet cannot lie;\nFor never in my seat of prophecy\nSpoke I of man, of woman, or of state,\nAught else than the Olympian father bade.\nI pray you, mark the force of this my plea,\nAnd yield obedience to the will of Zeus,\nFor Zeus is mightier than a judge's oath.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nZeus, as thou sayest, inspired this oracle\nWhich bade Orestes, for his father's death\nTake vengeance, reckless of a mother's claim.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\n'Twas different when a noble warrior fell,\nOne that the heaven-entrusted sceptre swayed,\nSlain by a woman's hand, not with the bow,\nAs slays the fierce far-darting Amazon,\nBut in such wise as Pallas and the court\nImpanelled to decide this cause shall hear.--\nAs from the war he happily returned\nShe met him with perfidious flatteries.\nThen in his bath, as to the laver's edge\nHe came, she, like a canopy, outspread\nA robe and smote him tangled in its folds.\nBy such foul practice died a man of all\nWorshipped, the puissant leader of our host.\nSuch was his murderess; well the tale may touch\nThe hearts of those who shall pass judgment here.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nZeus, then, it seems, is on the father's side,\nYet Zeus his aged father put in bonds.\nHow squares that story with thy present plea?\nI pray the court to hark to his reply.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nO hateful brood, abhorred of all the gods,\nHe who is bound may be unbound again.\nThere's many a way to set a captive free;\nBut when the dust has drunk the blood of man,\nDeath knows no cure or resurrection.\nFor death my father hath no remedy,\nAll else he with his will omnipotent\nSorts as him lists, exhaustless in his power.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSuppose yon wretch acquitted on thy plea,\nCan he, polluted with a mother's blood,\nAt Argos dwell and in his father's home?\nWhat public altar can he use, what guild\nOf kinsmen will admit him to their rite?\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nWith this, too, will I deal, and mark me well,\nThe mother is not parent to the child,\nBut only fosters that she hath conceived.\nThe male is the true parent, and his mate\nBut holds the germ, so it 'scape blight, in trust.\nThis can I prove by puissant argument.\nA father sans a mother there may be.\nThere stands the daughter of Olympian Zeus,\nShe ne'er was nurtured in the darkling womb,\nYet could no god in heaven beget her peer.\nPallas, as always my endeavour is\nThy city and thy people to exalt,\nSo I have sent this suppliant to thy hearth,\nThat he might be thy ever faithful friend,\nAnd thou might'st count him as a sure ally,\nHim and his race hereafter, and this bond\nUnbroken through all ages might endure.\n\nATHENE.\n\nThe pleadings now are ended, and I call\nUpon the panel for a righteous vote.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nOn our side the last arrow has been shot;\nWe wait but for the verdict of the court.\n\nATHENE.\n\nWhat order can I take that will content ye?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nYe all have heard the pleadings in this cause;\nNow in your hearts let justice rule the vote.\n\nATHENE.\n\nYe men of Athens, hear what is ordained\nFor this first trial of a homicide.\nSo long as Aegeus' nation shall endure\nUpon this hill shall Justice hold her seat.\nHere Theseus' foes, the Amazons, did camp\nIn days of old; here they a fortress built\nIn rivalry to this new-founded town;\nHere sacrificed to Ares, whence the name\nOf Ares' Hill; and here, by day and night,\nIndwelling reverence and the fear of wrong\nShall keep my people from unrighteousness,\nSo they abstain from innovation rash.\nFoul the clear fountain with impurities,\nAnd of its waters thou canst drink no more.\nHold fast the golden mean, from anarchy\nAnd from a despot's rule alike removed;\nNor cast all awe out of the commonwealth,\nFor who is righteous that is void of awe?\nWhat now is founded if ye will revere,\nYour land and state shall such a bulwark have\nAs hath no nation in the universe\nFrom Pelops' realm to Scythia's utmost wild.\nThis counsel I establish incorrupt,\nAugust, high-souled, and ever vigilant\nTo guard the public weal while others sleep.\nSuch is my counsel to my citizens\nFor times to come. Now let the judges rise.\nTheir ballots take, and a true verdict give\nAccording to their oath; no more I say.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n(_One_ FURY _speaking for the rest_.)\n\nI warn ye to respect this company,\nWhom else your land may find sore visitants.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nI warn ye to respect the oracles\nOf Zeus and mine, nor dare to make them void.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBloodshedding falls not within thy domain;\nThy holy shrine will holy be no more.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nWas then my sire misled in that from blood\nHe cleansed Ixion, first of homicides?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSay what thou wilt of justice, if we miss,\nWe shall return in wrath to haunt the land.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nBoth by the new and by the ancient gods\nThou art despised: the victory will be mine.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n'Twas thou that didst in Pheres' house cajole\nThe fates to grant a mortal endless life.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nWas it not well to do good unto him\nThat honoured me, and at his utmost need?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThou didst, subverting all the rule of eld,\nBeguile with wine those ancient deities.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nAnd thou wilt soon, barred of thy cruel will,\nSpit forth thy venom, yet not harm thy foe.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSince thy pert youth doth spurn my reverend age.\nI wait the issue of this cause in doubt\nWhether to lay my curse upon this land.\n\nATHENE.\n\nTo me it falls at last to give my vote,\nAnd I my vote will for Orestes give;\nNo mother bore me, to the male I cleave\nIn all things saving that I wedlock shun\nWith my whole heart, and am my father's child.\nTherefore, a woman's fate that slew her lord,\nThe guardian of her home, concerns me not.\nNow, if there be a tie, Orestes wins.\nJudges, to whom that office is assigned,\nBe quick, turn out the ballots from the urns.\n\nORESTES.\n\nPhoebus, kind god, what will the verdict be?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO Night, my sable mother, now look down.\n\nORESTES.\n\nFor me salvation or despair is nigh.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nFor us, fresh veneration or disgrace.\n\nAPOLLO.\n\nYe men of Athens, truly count the votes,\nStrictly observing justice in the tale,\nFor want of caution here will work much woe,\nWhile a great house may by one vote be saved.\n\nATHENE.\n\n(_To_ ORESTES.)\n\nThou art acquitted of blood-guiltiness,\nFor equal are the numbers of the votes.\n\nORESTES.\n\nO Pallas, thou hast saved a royal house!\nI was an exile; thou hast brought me home.\nAnd now shall every son of Hellas say,\nHe is once more an Argive, once more holds.\nHis father's state, for which my gratitude\nIs due to Pallas and to Loxias,\nAnd, lastly, to the all-preserving Zeus,\nWho, taking pity on my father's fate,\nSaved me from these my mother's advocates.\nNow to my home I go; but first I swear\nTo thee and thine an everlasting oath,\nThat never from my land shall chieftain come\nTo lift against this land his martial spear.\nOurselves, though then we in our graves shall be,\nWill on the breakers of our covenant\nSend such disaster, such perplexity,\nSuch faintness, and such evil auguries,\nThat they shall surely rue their enterprise;\nBut if my people keep the covenant,\nAnd ever true allies to thine remain,\nMy spirit shall fight with them from the tomb.\nNow fare ye well, thou and thy citizens;\nStill in war's wrestle may your foemen fall,\nAnd ever on your spears sit victory.\n\n\n\n\n\nSOPHOCLES\n\n\n\n\n\nOEDIPUS THE KING.\n\n\nOedipus is the son of Laius, King of Thebes, and Queen Jocasta. It had\nbeen prophesied of him, before his birth, that he would kill his\nfather and lie with his mother. To avert this, when born, he is\ndevoted by his mother to death by exposure on a mountain. But he is\nsaved and taken to Polybus, King of Corinth, who adopts him, and whose\nson he believes himself to be. Having heard of the prophecy concerning\nhimself, he leaves Corinth to avoid its fulfilment; but on his road\nfalls in with Laius, has a quarrel with his attendants, and kills him.\nHe then goes to Thebes, delivers the Thebans from the Sphinx, by\nguessing her riddle, is rewarded with the kingdom, and marries the\nwidowed Queen Jocasta, his own mother, who bears children to him. The\ngods, offended by the presence of murder and incest, send a plague on\nThebes. Oedipus sends his brother-in-law, Creon, to consult the oracle\nat Delphi respecting the visitation. The oracle bids the Thebans expel\nthe murderer of Laius. This leads to an inquiry after the murderer,\nand through successive disclosures, in the management of which the\npoet exerts his art, to the revelation of the dreadful secret. It is a\nstory of overmastering fate.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE PLAGUE_.\n\nThe plague sent by the angry gods is raging at Thebes.\nThe people are gathered in supplication round the altars before\nthe palace of Oedipus, who comes forth to them.\n\nLINES 1-77.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nMy children, progeny of Cadmus old,\nWhy in this posture do I find you here,\nWith wool-wreathed branches in your suppliant hands?\nThe city is with breath of incense filled,\nFilled with sad chant, and voices of lament,\nWhereof the truth to learn from other lips\nDeeming not right, myself am present here,\nThat Oedipus, the world-renowned, am hight.\nSay, reverend sir, since thee it well beseems\nTo speak for all, what moves this company,\nFear or desire? Know that I fain would aid\nWith all my power. Hard-hearted I must be\nIf pity for such suppliants touched me not.\n\nTHE PRIEST.\n\nOedipus, puissant ruler of our land,\nBehold us prostrate at thy altars here,\nAnd mark our ages; some are callow boys,\nOthers are priests laden with years, as I\nAm priest of Zeus; others are chosen youths.\nThe rest, with suppliant emblems in their hands,\nSit in the mart, or at the temples twain\nOf Pallas' or Ismenus' prescient hearth.\nThe city, as thou dost perceive, is tossed\nOn the o'er-mastering billows, and no more\nCan lift her head above the murderous surge.\nHer foodful fruits all withering in the germ,\nHer flocks and herds expiring on the lea,\nHer births abortive, while the fiery fiend\nOf deadly pestilence has swooped on her,\nMaking the homes of Cadmus desolate,\nAnd gluts dark Hades with the wail of death.\nAn equal of the gods, I and these youths\nThat here sit on this earth, account thee not;\nBut we account thee first of men to deal\nWith visitation or cross accident.\nA stranger thou didst bring to us release\nFrom tribute to that cruel songstress paid.\nAdvantage from our guidance thou hadst none,\n'Twas by the inspiration of a god\nAs we believe that thou didst redeem our State.\nNow, Oedipus, thou whom we all revere,\nWe bow before thee, and implore thy grace\nTo find some succour for us if thou canst\nBy heavenly teaching or through human aid.\nIn men, who by experience have been tried,\nWe find the happiest fruits of policy.\nCome, best of men, lift up our city's head!\nLook to thy own renown; thy zeal once shown\nHas earned for thee a patriot saviour's name.\nLet us not think of thee as of a prince\nThat raised us up to let us fall again;\nBut make our restoration firm and sure.\n'Twas under happy omens that thou then\nDidst succour us; what then thou wast, be now.\nOur king thou art; if king thou wilt remain,\nReign o'er a peopled realm, not o'er a waste.\nNaught is the bravest ship without her crew,\nThe strongest fort without its garrison.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nPoor children, little needs to tell me that\nFor which ye come to pray; too well I know\nYe all are sick. And, sick as ye may be,\nThere is not one whose sickness equals mine.\nThe grief of each of you touches himself,\nAnd touches none beside: your sovereign's heart\nBears your griefs, and the city's and his own.\nNot from a slumber have ye wakened me,\nTrust me, I many an anxious tear have shed,\nAnd many a path have tried in wandering thought.\nSuch remedy as, scanning all, I find\nI have applied. Creon, Menoeceus' son\nAnd my Queen's brother, to the Pythian shrine\nOf Phoebus I have sent to ask what act\nOr word of mine this city will redeem.\nAnd now, as anxiously I mete the time,\nMy soul is troubled, for, to my surprise,\nHe has been absent longer than he ought.\nBut when he comes, a caitiff I shall be\nIf I do not all that the god ordains.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE DAWN OF DISCOVERY_.\n\nOedipus, having learned from the oracle that the cause of the\nwrath of the gods and of the plague is the presence of the\nmurderer of Laius in the land, sends for the blind prophet,\nTiresias, to tell him who is the murderer. Tiresias, knowing\nthe secret, is reluctant to reveal it, and an altercation ensues,\nOedipus suspecting that Tiresias has been set on by Creon, the\nQueen's brother, who he thinks is intriguing to supplant him in\nthe monarchy.\n\nLINES 300-462.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nTiresias, thou whose thought embraces all,\nRevealed or unrevealed, in heaven or earth,\nIn how sad plight our city is, thy mind,\nIf not thy eye, discerns. Prophet, in thee\nResides our sole hope of deliverance.\nPhoebus, if thou hast not the tidings heard,\nHas to our envoys answered, that the plague\nWill never leave this city till we find\nThe murderers of the late King Laius,\nAnd slay them or expel them from the land.\nThen, if a way thou know'st, by augury\nOr divination, put forth all thy power,\nSave this our commonwealth, thyself and me;\nPut from us the pollution of this blood.\nTo thee alone we look; what gifts one has\nTo use for good is of all toil the best.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nAh! what an ill possession knowledge is\nWhen ignorance were gain. This well I know,\nAnd yet forgot, else had I not come here.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat ails thee that thou bring'st this face of gloom?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nLet me go home, for each of us will bear\nHis burden easiest if so thou dost.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhatever thou dost know, the voice of right\nAnd call of patriot duty bids thee speak.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nSpeech is not always opportune; in thee\nIt is not; thy mistake I would not share.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nOh, by the gods, I pray thee stand not mute!\nWe all as suppliants kneel in heart to thee.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nThen are ye all misguided. As for me,\nI tell not that which told would hurt us both.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHow! dost thou know and yet refuse to tell?\nWilt thou prove traitor and undo the State?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI will not bring down woe on thee and me.\nPress me no more; thy questioning is vain.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nO vilest of mankind, for thou would'st move\nA stone to righteous wrath, wilt thou not speak\nBut still stand there unmoved and obdurate?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nThou dost reprove my heart, yet near thine own\nIs something that the censor wots not of.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhose wrath would not be kindled when he heard\nLanguage so hateful to a patriot's ear?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nEven if I keep silence, it must come.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThat which must come why not disclose to me?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI will speak no word more; then, if thou wilt,\nFreely give vent to thy most savage wrath.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nFreely my anger shall give utterance\nTo what I think: I think that in thy mind\nThis murder was engendered, was thy act\nSave the mere blow, and hadst thou not been blind,\nI should have deemed thee the sole murderer.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nHa! Then I call upon thee to be true\nTo thy own proclamation, and henceforth\nAbstain from intercourse with these or me,\nAs he that brings on us the curse of blood.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHast thou the impudence such calumny\nTo vent, and dream'st thou of impunity?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI fear thee not; truth's power is on my side.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhence did it come to thee? not from thy art.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nFrom thee that made me speak against my will.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nSpeak how? Repeat thy words that I may know.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nDidst thou not understand or tempt'st thou me?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nFully I did not. Say it once again.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI say the murderer whom thou seek'st is thou.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nUnpunished twice thy slanders shall not go.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nShall I say more, further to fire thy wrath?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAll that thou wilt; 'twill be of none effect.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI say that thou dost with thy next of kin\nFoully consort, not knowing where thou art.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAnd think'st thou still unscathed to say these things?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI do, if there is any strength in truth.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nIn truth is strength, but that strength is not thine;\nThou in eyes, ears, and mind alike art blind.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nAnd thou art wretched, casting in my teeth\nWhat all men presently will cast in thine.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThy lot is utter darkness; neither I\nNor any one who sees, can fear thy wrath.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nNot mine is chastisement; Apollo's might\nSufficient is, and will bring all to pass.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nIs this contrivance Creon's or thine own?\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nThyself, not Creon, is thy enemy.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nO wealth, O sovereignty, O art of arts\nThat givest victory in the race of life,\nHow are ye still by envious malice dogged!\nThis place of power, which now I hold, by me\nUnsought, was by the city's will bestowed.\nYet the thrice-loyal Creon, my fast friend,\nSeeks now to oust me by foul practices,\nUsing for tool this knavish soothsayer,\nThis lying mountebank, whose greedy palm\nHas eyes, while in his science he is blind.\nShow me the proofs of thy prophetic gift.\nWhy, when the riddling Sphinx was here, didst thou\nFail by thy skill to save the commonwealth?\nThe riddle was not such as all can read,\nBut gave thy art fair opportunity,\nYet neither inspiration served thee then,\nNor omens, but I, skilless Oedipus,\nOut of my ignorance confounded her,\nBy my own wit, unhelped by auguries;\nI, whom thou now conspirest to depose,\nHoping that thou wilt stand by Creon's throne.\nThese pious efforts, trust me, will be rued\nBy thee and him that sets thee on; thy years\nAre thy defence from instant chastisement.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nTo us, Lord Oedipus, alike thy word\nAnd the seer's seem the utterance of your wrath.\nWrath here is out of place, what we would seek\nIs a right reading of the oracle.\n\nTIRESIAS\n\nHigh is thy throne, yet must thou stoop so low\nAs to endure free speech; that power is mine.\nI to my god am servant, not to thee,\nAnd therefore, ask not Creon's patronage.\nI tell thee who with blindness tauntest me,\nSight though thou hast thou seest not what thou art,\nNor where thou hast been dwelling, nor with whom.\nKnow'st thou thy birth? No, nor that thou art loathed\nBy thine own kin, the living and the dead.\nOne day thy sire's and mother's awful curse,\nWith double scourge, will whip thee from this land.\nDark then shall be those eyes which now are light,\nAnd with thy cries what place shall not resound,\nWhat glen of wide Cithaeron shall not ring,\nAs soon as thou dost learn into what port\nOf marriage swelling sails have wafted thee?\nMuch is in store beside to bring thee down\nUnto thy children's level and thy own.\nThen trample upon Creon and my gift\nOf prophecy. Of all mankind is none\nWhom ruin more complete awaits than thee.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWho can endure this caitiff's insolence?\nGo to perdition on the instant; pack,\nAnd of thy presence let this house be rid.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI had not come except at thy command.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nI knew not then what folly thou would'st talk,\nElse should I scarce have called thee to my house.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nSuch it appears in thy conceit, am I,\nA fool; yet to thy parents I seemed wise.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nMy parents, hold there! Tell me who were they.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nThis day shall bring thee parents and despair.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nRiddles again; still utterances dark.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nIn guessing riddles art thou not supreme?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWelcome the taunt which to my greatness points.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nAnd yet that day of greatness ruined thee.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nI reck not if it saved the commonwealth.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI will be gone. Boy, lead me to my home.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nYea, let him lead thee; thy intrusion here\nTroubles us; thy departure were relief.\n\nTIRESIAS.\n\nI go, but first will my deliverance make\nMaugre thy frown, which can do me no harm.\nI tell thee that the man whom thou dost seek\nWith proclamations and with threat'nings dire,\nThe man who murdered Laius, is here;\nIn name a foreigner, a native born\nIn fact, as will to his small joy appear.\nFor he who now has sight will go forth blind,\nHe who is rich will go forth penniless,\nGroping his way to dwell in a strange land;\nBrother of his own offspring he has been,\nAs all the world shall know, husband of her\nThat brought him forth, with incest stained, and stained\nWith parricide. Get thee into thy house,\nThere think upon my words, and if I lie\nSay I have lost the gift of prophecy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_DISCOVERY_.\n\nA messenger from Corinth announces to Oedipus the death of his reputed\nfather, Polybus, king of Corinth, and incidentally reveals to him in\npart the history of his birth. Jocasta, the queen of Oedipus and his\nreal mother, is on the scene when the messenger arrives; upon her the\nfatal secret dawns at once.\n\nLINES 924-1085.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nStrangers, I pray ye tell me if ye can\nWhere is the palace of King Oedipus;\nOr better, where is Oedipus himself.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThis is the palace, in it is the king,\nAnd there the mother of his children stands.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nBlessed may she be, be all around her blessed,\nIf she indeed his honoured consort is.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nBlessed be thou too, O stranger; such return\nThy courtesy demands; but let me know\nWherefore thou comest, what thou hast to tell.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nGood news to thee, lady, and to thy lord.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhat is the news, whence is thy embassage?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nFrom Corinth, and the tidings on my lips\nMay please, must please, and yet perchance may pain.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhat can it be that has this double power?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThe denizens of yonder Isthmian land\nWill make thy lord their king, as rumour goes.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhat? Is old Polybus their king no more?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHis lease of power has ended in his grave.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhat say'st thou, that King Polybus is dead?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nIf I speak false let death be my reward.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nFly, fly, my handmaid, bear unto your lord\nThis news without delay. O oracles,\nWhere are ye? Oedipus in exile lives\nLest he should slay this prince, and lo, this prince,\nUntouched by him, in course of nature dies.\n\nOEDIPUS (_entering_).\n\nJocasta, dearest partner of my life,\nWhy from the palace hast thou summoned me?\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nHear this man's tidings, and by them be taught\nTo what have come those reverend oracles.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWho is the man? What is the news he brings?\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nHe comes from Corinth, and the news he brings\nIs that thy father, Polybus, is dead.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat say'st thou, stranger? Tell it me thyself.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nIf it is this thou first wouldst surely know,\nThen surely know that Polybus is gone.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nDied he of sickness or through treachery?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nA touch will lay the aged form to sleep.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHe died, poor king, by sickness it would seem.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nBy sickness added to his length of years.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nFie on it, wife! why should we ever waste\nOne thought on that prophetic Pythian shrine,\nOr on the notes of birds whose boding cry\nForetold that I should be a parricide?\nBeneath the ground my father lies, and I\nAm guiltless of his blood, unless his heart\nBroke at my loss, and thus through me he died.\nThese prophecies that trouble us are naught,\nAre buried in the grave of Polybus.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nSaid I not from the first it would be so?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThou didst, but I was led astray by fear.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nHenceforth dismiss these bugbears from thy soul.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThe incest--have I not still that to dread?\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhy should man fear whose life is but the sport\nOf chance, to whom the future is all dark?\n'Tis best to live at hazard as one may.\nFor that predicted incest, dread it not,\nFor many a man has in a dream ere this\nLain with his mother. He who takes no thought\nOf such hobgoblins, lives the easiest life.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAll thou hast said would have my full assent\nWere not my mother still alive; but now,\nThough thou say'st well, I cannot choose but fear.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nA light of hope shines from your father's grave.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nYes, but my mother lives, and fear with her.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nWhat, lady, is the cause of your alarm?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\n'Tis Merope, the Queen of Polybus.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAnd what is there in her to breed your fears?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nA dreadful ordinance of destiny.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nIs it a mystery? May it be told?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nIt may be told. The god before my birth\nForeshowed that with my mother I should lie,\nAnd shed with my own hands my father's blood.\nFor which cause I have long my dwelling made\nFar off from Corinth. Happily, 'tis true,\nYet to behold a parent's face is sweet.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nWas this the fear that drove thee from that land?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThis, and the dreadful thought of parricide.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nWhy do I not at once, as here I am\nWishing thy good, relieve thee of that fear?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThou wouldst not fail to reap my gratitude.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\n'Twas to that end I came, that to thy home\nWhen thou hadst come I might the gainer be.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHome, while my mother lives, I will not go.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nMy son, 'tis plain thou know'st not what thou dost.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHow? By the gods, old man, explain to me!\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nIf thou on her account dost shun thy home.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nI fear the god's prediction may prove true.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nTouching the stain of incest, wouldst thou say?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\n'Tis this, old man, I dread unceasingly.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nKnowest thou not that thy alarms are vain?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHow vain, if of these parents I was born?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nPolybus was no relative of thine.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat say'st thou? Was not Polybus my sire?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAs much thy sire as I am, and no more.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nCan father and not father be the same?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nNeither did I beget thee nor did he.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThen for what reason did he call me son?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThou wast a gift to him, and from this hand.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAnd could he take a foundling to his heart?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nIt was the yearning of a childless man.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWas I thine own, or was I bought by thee?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nI found thee in Cithaeron's bosky glade.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat was it brought thee to this neighbourhood?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nI kept the flocks that fed upon these hills.\n\nOEDIPUS.\nWast thou a shepherd wandering for hire?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nPoor as I was, O King, I saved thy life.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nIn what so evil plight then was I found?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThy insteps to that question can reply.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAlack! what evil memory is this?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThy feet were pierced through when I rescued thee.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nA hapless babe, foul swaddling clothes had I.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThy name is thy misfortune's monument.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWas it my mother's or my father's act?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nI know not; he who gave me thee may tell.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWas I received, then, and not found by thee?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nAnother shepherd put thee in my hands.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWho was he? Canst thou point him out to me?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nA serving-man of Laius he was called.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThat Laius who was ruler of this land?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nThe same; the man I mean his herdsman was.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nIs he alive? can he be seen by me?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nYou that this land inhabit best can tell.\n\nOEDIPUS.\nDoes any one of you who stand around\nThe herdsman know of whom this stranger speaks?\nEither afield or here has he been seen?\nSpeak out! 'tis time that all should be revealed.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nI ween it is no other than the hind\nOf whom thou wast in quest some time ago;\nBut Queen Jocasta could most likely tell.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWife, dost thou know the man for whom erewhile\nWe sent? Is it of him that this man speaks?\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nWhy ask? what matters it of whom he spoke?\nLet not such follies dwell upon thy mind.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThink not to hinder me, with such a clue,\nFrom searching out the secret of my birth.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nFor Heaven's sake, for the sake of thy own life,\nDesist! That I am stricken is enough.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nFear not; though I be proved through three descents\nThree times a slave, thy birth will take no stain.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nHear me, I do implore thee! Search no more.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nI will not stop till all has been revealed!\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nShe that entreats thee has thy good at heart.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nGood it may be, yet does it please me ill.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nUnhappy man! what thou art, never know.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nGo, some one; fetch the herdsman with all speed,\nAnd let this lady vaunt her pedigree.\n\nJOCASTA.\n\nAlack! alack! Wretch, by no other name\nCan I now call thee or shall call thee more!\n  (JOCASTA _rushes off the scene_.)\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO King, why has the lady rushed away\nIn this wild burst of grief? I sorely fear\nHer silence prefaces a storm of woe.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nLet her storm on! resolved am I to find\nThe stem that bore me, lowly though it be.\nShe, very like, puffed with a woman's pride,\nMay feel ashamed of my ignoble birth.\nFor me, I do esteem me Fortune's child,\nNor blush to hold me of her favour born.\nShe is my mother; and my father, Time,\nWhose months have on to greatness borne his child.\nWith such a parentage I fear no change\nThat should forbid me to search out my birth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE CATASTROPHE_.\n\nJocasta, in despair, hangs herself. Oedipus puts out his own eyes. The\nscene is described by a second messenger, who has witnessed it.\n\nLINES 1223-1296.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nO reverend priests and elders of this land,\nWhat are ye doomed to hear? what to behold?\nWhat sorrow will be yours if loyally\nYe love the royal house of Labdacus?\nIster or Phasis were too scant a stream,\nTo wash the bloodstains of this roof away,\nSuch horrors does it hide, and presently\nWill show beneath the sun; horrors self-caused,\nAnd self-caused woes are of all woes the worst.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThat which we knew already topped the height\nOf misery. What hast thou more to tell?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nWhat fewest words serve to impart is this,\nJocasta the illustrious is no more.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAlas, poor Queen! How was it that she died?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nBy her own hand. That which is worst of all,\nThe sight of what was done, your eyes are spared;\nBut to your ears, so far as memory serves,\nI will recount her most disastrous end.\nWhen, in a storm of passion, hence she passed\nTo yonder house, straight to her marriage-bed,\nTearing her hair with both her hands, she flew.\nShe slammed the door behind her; then she cries\nTo Laius, that had long been in his grave,\nCalling to mind the seed that they had raised\nTo murder its begetter, while his mate,\nWas left to her own child's incestuous arms.\nShe cursed the bed which to a husband bore\nA husband and gave children to a child.\nThereon she slew herself, I wot not how,\nFor, with loud outcries Oedipus rushed in,\nAnd on his movements all our eyes were turned,\nSo that we could not mark Jocasta's end.\nHe, raving, shouted to us for a sword,\nAnd asked where was his wife that was no wife,\nBut his own mother and his children's, too.\nThen, in his frenzy, some mysterious power,\nFor it was none of us, showed him the way.\nWith a wild yell, as though one led him on,\nHe charged the doorway, from their sockets tore\nThe bolts, and headlong dashed into the room.\nThere we beheld Jocasta hanging dead,\nHer neck entangled in the fatal noose.\nThis the King seeing, gave a fearful yell,\nAnd loosed the rope; the corpse fell to the ground.\nWhat then ensued was fearful to behold:\nThe golden buckles wherewith she was dight\nHe from her garment plucked, and, lifting them\nOn high, he smote the pupils of his eyes,\nCrying aloud that they should look no more\nUpon his suffering or his crimes, but dark\nHenceforth betray their duty seeing those\nWhom they ought not, not seeing those they ought.\nChanting this strain, once and again he smote,\nWith hand uplift, his eyeballs, till the blood\nRan from his wounded eyes down to his chin,\nNot in slow-oozing drops of clotted gore,\nBut in a pelting shower of crimson hue.\nSuch is the wreck, not of a single life,\nBut of a husband's and a wife's in one.\nThe grandeur of this house in happier hours\nWas grandeur worthy of the name. To-day\nSorrow and desolation, death and shame,\nAll evils for which man has names are here.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nRests now the victim from this agony?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHe calls to us to open wide the door\nAnd let all Thebes behold the parricide.\nHis mother's--names too horrible he used,\nVowing he'll doom himself to banishment,\nNor live beneath the curse himself called down.\nBut some support and guidance he will need,\nFor he is stricken past man's strength to bear.\nThyself will see it, for behold, the gates\nOpen and will a spectacle disclose\nThat might the bitterest foe to pity move!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE PARTING.\n\nOedipus bewails his calamities. A scene follows between him and Creon,\nhis wife's brother, whom he had accused of treasonably plotting\nagainst him in concert with Tiresias.\n\nLINES 1369-1514.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThat what is done is not done for the best,\nForbear to preach; thy counsel is in vain.\nCould I have looked upon my father's face,\nMeeting him yonder in the underworld,\nOr on my hapless mother's, when to both\nI had done wrongs worse than the worst of deaths?\nPerchance you'll say to see my progeny\nWere sweet! when I remembered whence they sprung.\nNever, believe me, to their father's eyes;\nNor to see city, tower, or temple more,\nFrom which, of all men most unfortunate,\nWhen I had lived the noblest life in Thebes,\nI did myself cut off, adjuring all\nTo drive the sinner out by heaven declared\nAccursed and of the blood of Laius.\nWhen I had thus proclaimed my infamy,\nCould I meet, eye to eye, those citizens?\nIt might not be. Nay, were there any means\nOf cutting off the source of hearing, too,\nI would have closed all avenues of sense,\nAnd made this wretched frame both blind and deaf.\nThe mind has peace that dwells apart from ills.\nWhy, O Cithaeron, didst thou cherish me,\nNot end my life at once, that so my kind\nHad never learned the secret of my birth?\nO Polybus, and Corinth, and that home\nBy me paternal deemed, how foul beneath\nWas that which ye brought up so outward fair!\nI stand a villain, and of villains born.\nO meeting of three ways, and lonely glen,\nAnd copse, and narrow pass at the cross-roads,\nThat from my father's veins drank, by my hand,\nThe blood which filled my own, remember ye,\nWhat ye beheld me do, and what I did\nThereafter in this land? Marriage ill-starred,\nThou gavest me birth, and then of me gave birth\nTo a fresh offspring, and before the sun\nShowed fathers, brothers, children, parricides,\nBrides, wives, and mothers in unnatural train,\nWith all things most abhorred among mankind.\nBut what is foul to do is foul to hear,\nTherefore, at once bury me out of sight;\nPut me to death, cast me into the sea,\nThat never eye of man may see me more.\nCome, lay your hands upon my wretched frame,\nDo as I pray ye, fearing naught, my load\nOf woe no mortal can support but I.\n  (_Enter_ CREON.)\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAt the right time thy wish to execute\nAnd give thee counsel, Creon comes, now left\nIn place of thee sole guardian of our State.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAlas! To him what can I find to say,\nWhat plea of justice, since my conscience cries\nThat he has met foul treatment at my hands?\n\nCREON.\n\nI came not, Oedipus, to mock thy fall,\nNor to upbraid thee with unkindness past.\nBut ye, that stand around, if human hearts\nYe do not reverence, reverence yonder sun\nWhose fire feeds all things, and expose no more\nUnveiled to view this horror, which nor earth\nNor heaven's sweet rains nor sunlight can endure.\nBear him within; let there be no delay.\nThe sorrows of a household, piety\nReserves for kindred eyes and ears alone.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nSince thou my expectation hast belied,\nProving thyself as good as I am bad,\nGrant what I ask, for thy behoof I speak.\n\nCREON.\n\nWhat is this thing that thou wouldst have me do?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nCast me, and instantly, out of this land,\nBeyond the pale of human intercourse.\n\nCREON.\n\nAlready had I done this, but I first\nDesired to ask the counsel of the god.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThe god had fully made his counsel known,\nWhich was to slay the impious parricide.\n\nCREON.\n\nSo did we hold, yet in our present case\nBetter we deemed it to be circumspect.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWilt thou enquire about a wretch like me?\n\nCREON.\n\nThyself by this hast learned to trust the gods.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nI do conjure thee, and enjoin on thee,\nHer that within there lies, as seems thee fit,\nLay in the ground. To thee that care belongs.\nBut me, let never this my fatherland\nBe so dishonoured as to hold alive.\nUpon the mountains let my dwelling be,\nUpon my own Cithaeron, which my sire\nAnd mother chose as my appointed tomb,\nAnd so let those who sought it take my life.\nAnd yet past doubt it is that I was proof\n'Gainst death in all its forms; if I were saved,\nIt must have been for some fell destiny.\nBut be my own lot what it may, my care\nIs for my children, Creon. For the boys\nI'd have thee take no thought; as they are men,\nWhere'er they be they'll find a livelihood.\nBut for my girls now lorn and desolate,\nMy girls, apart from whom was never set\nTheir father's table, who still had their share\nOf everything on which his hand was laid,\nI crave thy care. And first let me embrace\nMy darlings and unite my tears to theirs.\nPray, good my lord,\nConsent, kind heart. To hold them in my arms\nWould be to feel them mine as when I saw--\nWhat shall I say?\n\n(ANTIGONE _and_ ISMENE, OEDIPUS' _daughters, are brought\nupon the scene_.)\n\nIs it my darlings' weeping that I hear?\nDo my ears tell me true? Has Creon sent\nMy best beloved in mercy to their sire?\nSay I aright?\n\nCREON.\n\nThou say'st aright. 'Tis I that, knowing well\nThy heart's desire, have granted thee this boon.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nFortune befriend thee for their presence here,\nHeaven guard thee better than it guarded me.\nDaughters, where are ye? Come unto these arms,\nThese arms that issued from one womb with you,\nWhich on the father that begot you brought\nThis darkness for the light he had before.\nBlindly, my children, and unwittingly,\nOffspring I got in an incestuous bed.\nSee you I cannot, but I weep for you,\nWhen I bethink me of the bitter life\nThat ye must live, marks for the scorn of men.\nTo what assembly, to what festival,\nWill ye e'er go and not be driven home\nIn tears, excluded from the spectacle?\nAnd when your marriageable hour has come,\nWhere will be found the man so venturesome\nTo take upon him the reproach that falls\nUpon my parents and from them on you?\nWhat stain is lacking when your father slew\nHis father, her that bore him took to wife\n'Gainst nature's law, and had you born to him\nFrom the same womb from which himself was born?\nIn face of such reproaches who will wed?\nNo one will dare. Daughters, to waste away\nLonely and childless is your certain doom.\nSon of Menoeceus, thou alone art left\nAs father to these children, in one day\nBereft of both their parents; let them not\nGo forth to roam famished and desolate,\nNor let them be confounded with my crimes.\nHave pity on them, seeing them so young,\nDeprived of all saving thy charity.\nReach forth thy hand in token of assent.\nChildren, were ye of age to understand,\nI had much counsel giv'n ye; but now pray\nThat you may dwell where it is best to dwell,\nAnd yours may be a happier lot than mine.\n\n\n\n\nOEDIPUS AT COLONUS.\n\n\nAfter the day of horrors the blind Oedipus is cast forth from Thebes,\nand becomes a wanderer over the face of the earth, guided and tended\nby his faithful daughter, Antigone. He comes at last to Colonus, a\nrural district near Athens, and one of the holy places of Attica. Here\nhe is destined to end his life, to be buried, and by the presence of\nhis remains to confer a blessing on the country which has given him a\nlast resting-place and a tomb. The dark cloud of involuntary guilt,\nwhich has hitherto overshadowed him, lifts at the end, and is\nsucceeded by a calm evening light.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_OEDIPUS AND ANTIGONE ARRIVE AT COLONUS AND ENTER THE CONSECRATED\nGROUND_.\n\nLINES 1-110\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nChild of a blind old man, Antigone,\nUnto what land, whose city, have we come?\nWho is there for this day to entertain\nWith scanty fare the wanderer, Oedipus,\nWho asks but little and still less receives,\nYet with his dole is fain to be content--\nFor time and suffering and a noble heart\nHave taught me how to bear adversity.\nBut, daughter, if thou seest a resting-place,\nEither in common ground or hallowed grove,\nThere guide me to a seat, that we may ask\nWhat place is this: strangers, we come to learn\nOf citizens and what they bid us do.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nOedipus, my unhappy sire, the towers\nThat fence the city round far off appear.\nThis seems a holy place; 'tis full of pine,\nOf laurel, and of vine under whose leaves\nTrills her sweet notes full many a nightingale.\nHere rest thee on this unhewn seat of rock;\nThe journey for thy aged feet was long.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nGuide thy old father safely to the seat.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nIt is a lesson taught me long ago.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhere is it we have halted? canst thou tell?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nAthens I know; this spot is strange to me.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThat it was Athens every traveller said.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWouldst thou that I go ask what place it is?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nYea, daughter, if it is inhabited.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nInhabited it is; but I may spare\nMy pains, for close at hand I see a man.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nBends he his steps in our direction, child?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nYes, and is now at hand.\n\n(_Enter_ STRANGER.)\n\nWhate'er is meet\nFor thee to say, speak; he is at thy side.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nO stranger, listen to this maid who sees\nBoth for herself and me, since our good luck\nHath sent thee to inform our ignorance.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nEre thou dost question further, leave that place;\n'Tis holy ground whereon thou mayest not tread.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat, then, is the indwelling deity?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nI tell thee it is hallowed; it belongs\nTo the dread Daughters of the Earth and Night.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat is their name? With reverence I would ask.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nWith us, the Eumenides, of sleepless eye;\nBut different names seem good in different lands.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nMay they receive the suppliant to their grace,\nFor I intend no more to leave this ground.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nWhat means this?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\n'Tis the token of my doom.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nMyself I dare not thrust thee out until\nOn my report the State my act approves.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nTo a poor wanderer, friend, be not unkind,\nBut what I humbly ask thee deign to tell.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nSpeak on, and no unkind refusal fear.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWhat is the place, then, upon which we stand?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nThou shalt know all that I can tell. The place\nAround is holy, dread Posidon here\nIs present, present here the lord of fire,\nTitan Prometheus. What thou standest on\nIs of this region hight the Brazen Way,\nThe prop of Athens, while these neighbouring fields\nBoast of Colonus, that famed charioteer,\nAs their first settler; and their denizens\nAre proud to bear their founder's sainted name.\nSuch claims to pious reverence hath this place,\nStranger, which they who dwell here feel the more.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nThere are then people who inhabit it?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nYes, people named after their patron god.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nHas it a king or do the commons rule?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nThe King of yonder city is its lord.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nAnd who now fills the seat of royalty?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nTheseus, the son of Aegeus, is his name.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nWould one of you my envoy be to him?\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nTo tell him aught, or bid him come to thee?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nTo show him how small cost may bring great gain.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nAnd wherein can the blind advantage him?\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nMy eyes are blind, but when I speak I see.\n\nSTRANGER.\n\nAttend my words if thou'rt an honest man,\nAnd honest though ill-starred thou seemst to me.\nStir not from off this spot where thou dost stand,\nTill to this township's rural denizens\nI have recounted all. They will decide\nWhether thou may'st remain or must depart.\n\n(_Exit_ STRANGER.)\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nMy daughter, has the stranger gone from us?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nHe has, my father; all is still around.\nThou mayst speak freely for I only hear.\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\nDread goddesses, of awful countenance,\nSince in your holy precincts first I rest,\nBe merciful to Phoebus and to me;\nFor Phoebus, when he all my woes foretold,\nPromised me peace at last, then to be mine\nWhen at my wandering's limit I should find\nA shrine and hostel of the powers of awe.\nHere of my misery was to be the goal,\nAnd I was to bring blessings to my hosts,\nAnd curses upon them that drove me out.\nTokens of this he pledged his word to send,\nAn earthquake, lightning, or a thunder peal.\nSure then I am that auguries from you,\nWho cannot lie, my wandering feet have led\nUnto this grove. How should the wayfarer\nElse have on you first lighted, like himself,\nUntasting of the wine-cup, and have found\nThis sacred seat unhewn? O goddesses,\nFulfil Apollo's oracles, and grant\nSome termination of this weary life,\nUnless my sum of pain seems incomplete,\nWhen long unbroken sufferings I have borne.\nO daughters dear of immemorial night,\nAthens, of cities most illustrious,\nThat art to the great Pallas dedicate,\nTake pity on this ghost of Oedipus;\nOnce I was not the thing that now I am.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE PRAISES OF COLONUS AND ATHENS_.\n\nLINES 668-719.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nOf this land of chivalry\nThou the garden here dost see,\nWhite Colonus, in whose glade,\nUnderneath the greenwood shade,\nHer loved haunt, the nightingale\nPoureth oft her luscious wail.\nGlossy-dark the ivy creeps;\nFlourishes along the steeps\nWith berries store, scorched by no ray,\nRent by no storm, the sacred bay.\nHere loves the jolly god to rove\nWith merry nymphs that round him move.\nHere many a flower, heaven-watered, blows,\nWorthy to bind immortal brows.\nNarcissus waves its clusters gay,\nAnd crocus gleams with golden ray.\nNor do the springs that feed thy flow,\nCephisus, intermission know:\nDay after day their crystal stream\nMakes the rich loam with plenty teem.\nNor do the muses keep afar,\nNor Aphrodite's golden car.\nHere grows, what neither Asia's coast\nNor Pelops' Dorian Isle can boast,\nThe tree that Nature's bounty rears,\nThe tree that mocks the foeman's spears,\nThat nowhere blooms so fair and free\nAnd rich--our own grey olive tree,\nOf which no chieftain, old or young,\nShall rob the land from which it sprung.\nBlue-eyed Athene is its guard,\nAnd Morian Zeus its sleepless ward.\nAnd loftier still the note of praise\nThat by the grace of heaven we raise\nTo this our motherland, for she\nIs Queen of steeds, Queen of the sea.\nPoseidon, son of Saturn, thou\nDidst set this crown upon her brow,\nWhen first upon Athenian course\nThou taughtst to curb the fiery horse.\nThe dashing oar our seamen ply,\nLight o'er the wave our galleys fly,\nKeeping the sea-nymphs company.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_LENGTH OF DAYS_.\n\nLINES 1211-1238.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nLittle wisdom hath the man\nThat would over-live his span.\nLength of days brings many a moan\nWhen life's prime is past and gone;\nBut of pleasures, never a one.\nThen all alike from dole to save,\nComes the dark and cheerless grave.\n\nNot to be is happiest;\nNext with speed to part is best.\nBloodshed, battle, hatred, strife,\nYouth with all these ills is rife.\nThen comes the last, the dreariest stage,\nSour, companionless old age.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE END OF OEDIPUS_.\n\nLINES 1579-1667.\n\nMESSENGER. (_To the_ CHORUS.)\n\nBrief is the speech, my fellow-citizens,\nNeeded to tell that Oedipus is dead;\nBut a brief speech will not suffice to give\nA full account of all that there befell.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHis life of sorrow then has found its end.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHe is where he will never sorrow more.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nDied he by act of heaven and painlessly?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHerein consists the wonder of my tale.\nWhen from this place he went, as thou didst see,\nNo longer guided by a friendly hand,\nBut himself acting as the guide of all,\nHaving arrived at the descending stair,\nWith brazen steps fast rooted in the earth,\nHe halted upon one of many paths,\nHard by the basin wherein treasured lie\nPledges of Theseus and Pirithous.\nMidway from this to the Thorician rock,\nThe hollow pear-tree and the marble tomb,\nHe took his seat and disarrayed himself\nOf his soiled weeds; then to his daughters called\nWater to bring that he might cleanse himself.\nThey to a knoll that rose above the fane\nOf boon Demeter, hastening, did with speed\nThat which their sire commanded,--bathed his limbs,\nAnd in new garments seemly him arrayed.\nWhen thus his heart's desire had been fulfilled,\nAnd none of his behests remained undone,\nThunder beneath the earth was heard, whereat\nThe maidens quaked, and on their father's knees\nThey laid them down and wept, nor ceased to beat\nTheir breasts and to pour forth the long-drawn wail.\nHe, hearing all at once their bitter cry,\nFolded his hands over their heads, and said,\n\"Daughters, this day your father is no more,\nFor now my course is ended and your life\nOf travel sore in tending me is done.\nHard was that life, my daughters, well I know,\nAnd yet a single word makes up for all.\nLove did ye never meet at any hand\nGreater than his, of whom henceforth bereft,\nYe must drag out whate'er remains of life.\"\nThus folded each in other's last embrace,\nThey sobbed and wailed. When they at last had done\nTheir weeping and their cry arose no more,\nA silence followed; all at once a voice\nCalled him, and made the hair of each of us\nThat heard it stand on end with sudden fear.\nRepeatedly it called, that mystic voice,\n\"Oedipus, linger thou no more,\" it said,\n\"Thine hour is come; too long is thy delay.\"\nHe, hearing the celestial summons, called\nFor our King Theseus to draw near to him;\nAnd when the King drew near, he said, \"Dear Prince,\nPledge to my daughters troth by your right hand,\nAs they will pledge their troth to thee, and swear\nThat thou wilt not desert them, but whate'er\nThou mayst do thou wilt do it for their good.\"\nTheseus, with noble soul, calm and unmoved,\nSwore to fulfil his stranger friend's request.\nWhich being ended, straightway Oedipus,\nWith his blind hands touching his daughters, said,\n\"Children, ye now must bear up gallantly\nAnd from this spot depart, nor seek to see\nOr hear that which may not be seen or heard.\nTarry no longer; what is now to come\nTheseus alone may lawfully behold.\"\nThese words of his all that were present heard.\nSo we departed, and with streaming eyes\nWalked by the maidens. Having gone some way\nWe turned, looked back, and saw that Oedipus\nHad vanished, nor did trace of him appear,\nWhile the King stood alone, holding his hand\nBefore his eyes as though some awful form,\nSome overpowering vision had appeared.\nAnd no long time had passed, when he was seen\nFalling upon his knees and worshipping\nAt once the Earth and all the Olympian gods.\nBut in what way Oedipus left this life\nTheseus alone of human kind can tell.\nThere flashed from heaven no lightning in that hour\nTo strike him dead; there came not from the sea\nA tempest with its blast to sweep him off.\nSome envoy from the gods was sent to him,\nOr opening earth engulfed him painlessly.\nThe old man died without disease or pang\nTo make us grieve for him; by miracle,\nIf ever man so died. Thinkst thou I dream?\nI know not how to show thee that I wake.\n\n\n\n\nANTIGONE.\n\n\nEteocles and Polynices, the unnatural brothers, having fallen by each\nother's hands, Creon is King of Thebes. To Eteocles, who had died in\ndefence of the city, he awards honourable burial; Polynices, who had\nfallen in attacking the city, he dooms to lie unburied, a great\ndishonour and calamity in Hellenic opinion. Antigone resolves to\ndisregard the ordinance, and pay the funeral rites to her brother\nPolynices. The conflict between the law of the State and the divine\nlaw which Antigone obeys is the moral key-note of the play. Ismene is\nAntigone's weaker sister and serves as a foil to her. Antigone is\nbetrothed to Haemon, a son of Creon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE TWO SISTERS_.\n\nLINES 1-99.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nIsmene, sister mine in blood and heart,\nAll woes that had their source in Oedipus\nZeus will bring on us yet before we die.\nNothing there is disastrous or accursed,\nNo blot of shame, no brand of infamy,\nWhich in our list of ills I reckon not.\nWhat is this proclamation that I hear\nThe general has put forth to all the host?\nSay, canst thou tell, or art thou ignorant\nThat those we hate are threat'ning those we love?\n\nISMENE.\n\nTo me, Antigone, no word has come\nEither of joyful tidings or of bad\nSince we of our two brothers were bereft,\nSlain in one day, each by the other's hand.\nLast night the Argive army marched away;\nThis much I know, and I know nothing more\nTo add to or abate our misery.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nOf that I was assured, and called thee forth\nBefore the gate to speak to thee apart.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWhat is it? Something ferments in thy soul.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nCreon to one of our two brothers grants,\nBut to the other he denies, a grave.\nEteocles, as they tell me, he has laid\nWith all due form and reverence in the tomb,\nThere to be ranked among the honoured dead.\nBut Polynices' miserable corpse,\nIt seems, by strict injunction he forbids\nAll citizens to bury or to mourn;\nOrdering that it be left without a grave,\nUnwailed, a welcome prey to ravening birds.\nThis proclamation Creon, worthy man--\nLook thou, look both of us alike--puts forth.\n'Tis said he hither comes to publish it,\nTo all who know it not, nor deems the thing\nOf small concern; for whoso disobeys\nHis penalty is to be stoned to death.\nSo stands the matter; it will now be seen\nWhether thy soul is worthy of thy race.\n\nISMENE.\n\nHow, daring maid, can I in such a case,\nWhether to loose or bind, assistance lend?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWilt thou take part and aid me? Ponder well.\n\nISMENE.\n\nIn what adventure? What is in thy mind?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWill thy arm help me to uplift the corpse?\n\nISMENE.\n\nHow! Wouldst thou brave the law and bury him?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nBury thy brother and mine own I would.\nDo as thou wilt, my duty shall not fail.\n\nISMENE.\n\nIn face of Creon's edict? Art thou mad?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nHas he the right to part me from mine own?\n\nISMENE.\n\nSister, alack! think how our father fell,\nO'erwhelmed with hatred and with infamy\nThrough sins which his own act had brought to light,\nHis eyes bereft of sight by his own hand;\nHow she that was his wife and mother too\nPerished, self-strangled with a twisted cord,\nAnd lastly our two brothers in one day\nWith fratricidal hands most ruefully\nUpon each other brought a common doom.\nNow only we are left, and worst of all\nOur fate will be, if, in contempt of law,\nOur ruler's will and order we defy.\nThink first that we are women, and too weak\nBattle to do against the strength of men;\nAnd next, that we are subject unto power,\nAnd must in harder things than this obey.\nFor my share then, I will entreat the dead\nTo pardon what I do unwillingly,\nAnd bow to the command of those in power.\nHigh vaulting virtue overleaps itself.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nI urge thee not; nay, didst thou wish to aid,\nMy heart would not accept thy partnership.\nHold to thy own opinion; him I mean\nTo bury; death were honour in that cause.\nI in the tomb shall lie with those I love,\nA glorious criminal. Longer will last\nThe praise of those below than those above.\nThere I shall ever dwell. Then, if thou wilt,\nTreat as of no account the claim of heaven.\n\nISMENE.\n\nI lack not piety, but lack the force\nTo fly in face of public ordinance.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nCling to thy specious pretext while I go\nTo heap the earth upon a brother's grave.\n\nISMENE.\n\nToo daring sister, how I quake for thee.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nQuake not for me, steer thine own course aright.\n\nISMENE.\n\nAt least disclose to none this thy design;\nI too will keep it locked within my breast.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nAvaunt! reveal it! I shall hate thee more\nIf thou dost not proclaim it to the world.\n\nISMENE.\n\nHot is thy blood, but chill thy enterprise.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nI shall please those whom I am bound to please.\n\nISMENE.\n\nHadst thou the power, but desperate is thy aim.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWhen my power fails I have but to desist.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWhere we must fail, not to attempt is wise.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nSuch talk will make thee hateful unto me,\nAnd by the dead man righteously abhorred.\nThen leave me with my folly to endure\nThis dreadful penalty. Come what come may,\nNothing will rob me of a noble death.\n\nISMENE.\n\nArt thou resolved? Go, then, and be assured\nThat though misguided thou art well beloved.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_SISTERLY LOVE DEFIES THE LAW_.\n\nAntigone is caught by the guard paying funeral rites to the corpse of\nPolynices, and is brought before Creon.\n\nLINES 384-581.\n\nGUARD.\n\nBehold the guilty one, caught in the act\nOf burial. Where is Creon to be found?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHither he comes returning from the house.\n\nCREON (_entering_).\n\nWhat makes my presence here so opportune?\n\nGUARD.\n\nMy prince, let mortal man nothing forswear,\nFor resolution yields to afterthought.\nLittle I looked hither to come again,\nSo pelted with the hailstorm of thy threats.\nBut the good fortune that surpasses hope\nIs of all pleasant things the pleasantest;\nAnd so I come in spite of all my oaths,\nAnd bring with me this maiden, who was caught\nDecking the grave. This time no lot was cast;\nThe prize is mine of right, and mine alone.\nAnd now, my prince, take and examine her\nThyself, as seems thee good. I claim my due,\nFrom all these troubles to be let go free.\n\nCREON.\n\nWhere, in what manner, was your prisoner found?\n\nGUARD.\n\n'Twas she that gave him burial; all is told.\n\nCREON.\n\nArt thou assured of that thou dost report?\n\nGUARD.\nI saw this maiden burying the corpse\nWhich thou forbad'st to bury. Is that plain?\n\nCREON.\n\nBy whom was she espied, and how entrapped?\n\nGUARD.\n\nThus did it happen: When we reached our post,\nConfounded by thy dreadful menaces,\nWe swept away with care each particle\nOf dust, and having laid the carcase bare,\nThen sat us down beneath the sheltering slope\nOf a hillside, where we escaped the stench,\nEach stirring up his fellow to the task,\nAnd cursing him who should be slack in it.\nSo went we on until the sun's bright orb\nHad reached the mid-arch of the firmament,\nAnd its full heat was felt, when suddenly\nA whirlwind, raising swirls of dust heaven-high,\nSwept o'er the plain, stripping the wood of leaves,\nWherewith it filled the air. We with closed eyes\nAnd lips sat bowing to the wrath of heaven.\nWhen this had passed away, after some time,\nAppeared this maiden, uttering piercing wails;\nLike to the plaintive notes of a lorn bird,\nThat finds her nest robbed of its callow brood,\nHer wailings were, when she beheld the corpse\nOnce more uncovered; and right bitterly\nCursed she the man whose hand had done the deed.\nStraightway a handful of dry dust she brings,\nThen thrice uplifting high a brazen urn,\nPours a three-fold libation on the corpse.\nWe at the sight, start up and quickly seize\nThe maiden, who was not a whit dismayed.\nWe charged her with what she before had done,\nAnd what was doing. Nor denied she aught,\nBut made me feel sorrow and joy at once.\nOneself to have escaped calamity\nIs cause for joy; to bring a friend to harm\nFills one with sorrow. But in my account\nOf all things mine own safety is the first.\n\nCREON.\n\n(_To_ ANTIGONE.)\n\nThou, that dost stand with eyes bent on the ground,\nDost thou plead guilty or deny the fact?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nDeny I do not, but avow my deed.\n\nCREON.\n\n(_To the_ GUARD.)\n\nThou standst acquitted of a heinous charge,\nAnd mayest betake thee hence whither thou wilt.\n\n(_To_ ANTIGONE.)\n\nBut thou, answer, and briefly, didst thou know\nThe proclamation made against this act?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nI did; how should I not? The words were plain.\n\nCREON.\n\nYet didst thou dare to violate the law?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThe proclamation went not forth from Zeus,\nOr Justice, partner of the gods below,\nWho had ordained these canons for mankind;\nNor deemed I proclamations had such power\nThat thereby mortal man could contravene\nHeaven's law unwritten and unchangeable.\nThat law was not the child of yesterday,\nNor knoweth man the source from which it came.\nI was not minded for what men might say\nTo break that law and brave the wrath divine.\nThat death would come I know, as come it must\nWithout thy proclamation, and to die\nBefore my hour I count it so much gain.\nFor when a life is full of wretchedness\nAs mine has been, is it not gain to die?\nLittle I care if I such doom must meet;\nBut I care much not uninterred to leave\nHis corpse that was of the same mother born.\nOne pains me sore, the other pains me not;\nAnd if to thee I seem to play the fool\nTo me it seems that to a fool I play it.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nShe shows the savage spirit of her sire,\nAnd to misfortune is untaught to bend.\n\nCREON.\n\nKnow that the most self-willed most often fall.\nIron that hath been tempered by the fire\nTo a surpassing hardness, when it breaks,\nWe often see shattered most thoroughly;\nAnd a small bit suffices to subdue\nThe fiery steed. High thoughts beseem not those\nWho owe subjection to another's will.\nThis maid before displayed her insolence\nIn overstepping what the laws ordained;\nAnd now again displays it, glorying\nAnd laughing in our face over her crime.\nIt is not I that am the man, but she\nIf she can thus usurp and go unscathed.\nBe she my sister's child or child of one\nNearer in blood than all around our hearth,\nShe shall not the last penalty escape,\nNor shall her sister. For she, too, I hold,\nConspired to bring about this burial.\nSummon her hither. Just now in the house\nI saw her raving like a maid possessed.\nWhen wickedness is gendered in the dark\nThe heart is apt its secret to betray.\nBut not less hateful is the shamelessness\nWhich, of foul acts convicted, calls them fair.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nTo lead me to my death, is that enough?\n\nCREON.\n\nIt is enough. This done, I ask no more.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThen why delay, when of thy words to me\nNot one gives pleasure or will ever give?\nNor are mine less displeasing unto thee.\nAnd yet what greater glory could be mine,\nThan, burying my own brother, I have won?\nWell know I, all here present would applaud\nBut that their tongues by fear of thee are tied.\nSovereigns in many things are fortunate,\nAnd they alone are free in act and speech.\n\nCREON.\n\nSo thinkest thou; of other Thebans, none.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nSo think they too, but they must cringe to thee.\n\nCREON.\n\nArt not ashamed to brave the public voice?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nIt is no shame to pay our kin their due.\n\nCREON.\n\nWas not he kin that fell upon our side?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nHis father and his mother both were mine.\n\nCREON.\n\nHow then do service which offends his shade?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThe dead man will not second thy complaint.\n\nCREON.\n\nHe will if he is levell'd with the vile.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nIt was a brother, not a slave, that fell.\n\nCREON.\n\nAssailing what the other died to save.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThe powers below ask these observances.\n\nCREON.\n\nThe good ask not like treatment with the bad.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWho knows but this may be deemed right below?\n\nCREON.\n\nHatred expires not when the hated dies.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nNot hate but love to share my nature is.\n\nCREON.\n\nGo, then, below and love, if love thou wilt,\nBut while I live no woman shall reign here.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n(ISMENE _entering_)\n\nIsmene, lo! before the gate appears,\nA sister's grief o'erflowing in her tears;\nThe cloud of sorrow gathered on her face\nBedews her roseate cheek and mars its grace.\n\nCREON.\n\n(_To_ ISMENE.)\n\nAnd thou, too, in my home a lurking snake?\nDidst drain my heart's blood, while I little thought\nThat I was cherishing two traitress fiends?\nWast thou a party to this burial,\nOr wilt thou swear that thou art innocent?\n\nISMENE.\n\nI did take part, if she will say I did,\nAnd am content to bear my share of blame.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThat equity forbids; neither wert thou\nWilling to act, nor I to act with thee.\n\nISMENE.\n\nYet would I not refuse mid thy distress,\nSister, to sail in the same barque with thee.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWhose was the deed, the dead and Hades know.\nI love not one whose friendship ends in words.\n\nISMENE.\n\nSister, deny me not the privilege\nOf sharing both thy piety and death.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nShare not my death, nor claim the work in which\nThou hadst no hand; that I die is enough.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWhat can life be to me, bereft of thee?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nAsk Creon, he is nearest thee in love.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWhy dost thou gird at me thus fruitlessly?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nMy laugh is bitter when I laugh at thee.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWhat can I do to aid thee even now?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nWhat, save thyself! I grudge not thy escape.\n\nISMENE.\n\nAlack! and must I let thee die alone?\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nYes; for thy choice was life, and mine was death.\n\nISMENE.\n\nBut not unspoken was my mind to thee.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nThy course was here approved, but mine below.\n\nISMENE.\n\nYet was the fault of both of us the same.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nBe of good cheer, thou livest; but my soul\nIs with the dead, to whom my care is due.\n\nCREON.\n\nOf these two sisters, one, it seems to me,\nHas lost her wits, and one was witless born.\n\nISMENE.\n\nO Prince, the reason that is born in us\nAbides not in the wretched, but departs.\n\nCREON.\n\nFrom thee it fled when thou didst share her crime.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWithout this maiden what can life be worth?\n\nCREON.\n\nSay not \"this maiden,\" for she is no more.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWilt thou slay her that is thy son's betrothed?\n\nCREON.\n\nWe shall find other fields enough to plough,\n\nISMENE.\n\nThou wilt not find such unison of hearts.\n\nCREON.\n\nI do not want a bad wife for my son.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nDear Haemon, how thy father slights thy love.\n\nCREON.\n\nThou and thy marriage are a weariness.\n\nISMENE.\n\nWilt thou bereave thy child of his betrothed?\n\nCREON.\n\nHades it is that shall these nuptials bar.\n\nISMENE.\n\nIt is resolved, it seems, that she shall die.\n\nCREON.\n\nThere I agree with thee. No more delay.\nSlaves, take her in, and henceforth let these maids\nBe women, and no more be left at large.\nThe stoutest hearts are apt to think of flight,\nWhen they perceive that death is drawing near.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE CONTEST BETWEEN LOVE AND FILIAL DUTY._\n\nLINES 631-780.\n\nCREON.\n\nSoon shall we know, my son, past prophecy\nWhether, apprised of that our fixed decree,\nThou com'st in wrath upon thy bride's account\nOr all we do is pleasing unto thee.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nMy father, I am thine; thy wisdom guides\nMy steps aright and I will follow it;\nNo marriage can be dearer to my heart\nThan is the blessing of thy governance.\n\nCREON.\n\nBe this, my son, implanted in thy breast,\nStill to thy father's judgment to defer.\nThis is the reason for which men desire\nTo rear obedient offspring in their homes,\nWho may confront their father's enemy,\nAnd with him render service to his friends.\nThe father of unprofitable sons--\nWhat does he else but for himself beget\nTrouble and exultation for his foes?\nNever, my Haemon, for a woman's love\nLet go thy better judgment. Thou must know\nThat cold and comfortless is the embrace\nOf a bad partner in the marriage bed.\nWhat sore is worse than ill-requited love?\nThen cast away this maiden from thy heart,\nAnd let her nuptial bower in Hades be,\nSince I have openly convicted her\nOf breaking law, by all beside obeyed.\nMy public act I will not falsify,\n\nThe maid shall die; howe'er she may descant\nOn sacred kinship. If at home I give\nDisorder license, where will order reign?\nWhoever governs his own house aright\nWill be a worthy member of the State.\nThe bold transgressor that defies the law,\nOr thinks to override authority,\nNeed look for no encouragement from me\nThe lawful ruler's word must be obeyed,\nJust or unjust, in great things and in small.\nWho does this, I will warrant him a man\nFit to command alike and to obey,\nAnd one who in the battle's storm will stand\nBravely and staunchly at his comrade's side.\nThere is no greater curse than anarchy;\nIt works the overthrow of commonwealths,\nLays homes in ruin, in the battle-field\nPuts armies to the rout, while victory\nAnd safety are the meed of discipline.\nSo must we stand by that which is decreed,\nAnd not to an usurping woman yield.\nFall if we must, a man shall deal the blow:\n'Twere shame to think a woman vanquished us.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nIf age our judgment dims not, thou hast dealt\nRightly with all things which thy speech concerns.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nFather, the favour of the gods bestows\nWisdom, most precious of all precious gifts.\nThat thou hast not the right upon thy side\nI cannot, if I could I would not, show.\nYet may another's argument be fair.\nNature hath set me to keep watch for thee\nOver the words, acts, censures of the world.\nThe common man, awed by thy presence, shrinks\nFrom uttering what he knows will please thee not.\nI hear beneath the cloud of secrecy\nHow the whole city for this maiden mourns.\nShe, who the least deserves it, dies, they say,\nA cruel death for a most noble deed,\nThe rescue of her brother's mangled corpse\nFrom being left unburied on the field,\nA prey to ravening dogs and carrion birds.\nHas she not merited a crown of gold?\nSuch murmurs darkling spread among the crowd.\nFather, I hold no treasure half so dear\nAs thy well-being; greater joy or pride\nIs none than sons have in an honoured sire,\nOr than a sire has in an honoured son.\nKeep not one changeless temper in thy breast,\nNor fancy that thou art infallible.\nWhoever dreams that he alone is wise,\nOr is in speech or spirit singular,\nWill, when unmasked, betray his emptiness.\nWise though a man may be, it is no shame\nTo have an open mind and flexible.\nThou seest by the winter torrent's side\nThe trees that bend go with their limbs unscathed,\nWhile those that bend not perish root and branch.\nAnd so the sailor who keeps taut the sheet,\nAnd stiffly battles with the tempest's force,\nIs apt thenceforth to float keel uppermost.\nBend, then, and give thy spirit room to change.\nIf from the lips of a young counsellor\nWisdom can come, I say it were far best\nIf we could all be born omniscient,\nBut as omniscience is not given to man,\n'Tis well to good advisers to give ear.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nPrince, it beseems ye both, if either says\nAught apt, to listen; both have argued well.\n\nCREON.\n\nAnd shall our hoary hairs be put to school,\nAnd shall we take instruction from this boy?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nIn naught that is not right. Young as I am,\nThou shouldst my reasons weigh, not count my years.\n\nCREON.\n\nDoes reason bid thee second anarchy?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nI would not ask e'en justice for the bad.\n\nCREON.\n\nIs not yon maiden sick of that disease?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nNot so avers the common voice of Thebes.\n\nCREON.\n\nShall I my duty from the commons learn?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nSeest thou how youthful is that sentiment?\n\nCREON.\n\nAm I to govern by another's will?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nThat is no state which owns one man for lord.\n\nCREON.\n\nIs not the state the ruler's property?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nThou wouldst reign well over a desert land.\n\nCREON.\n\nThe boy, it seems, will fight for yonder maid.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nIf thou'rt the maid; it is for thee I care.\n\nCREON.\n\nVillain, why art thou wrangling with thy sire?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nBecause thou errest from the path of right.\n\nCREON.\n\nErr I in claiming reverence for my state?\n\nHAEMON\n\nReverence upon religion tramples not.\n\nCREON.\n\nO caitiff soul, thrall of a woman's face!\n\nHAEMON\n\nThou wilt not see me by aught base enthralled.\n\nCREON.\n\nYet is thy whole discourse a plea for her.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nFor thee and me, and for the gods below.\n\nCREON.\n\nThis maid shall never be thy living bride.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nThen will she die, and will not die alone.\n\nCREON.\n\nHast thou the effrontery thus to threaten me?\n\nHAEMON.\n\nTo gainsay folly, call'st thou that a threat?\n\nCREON.\n\nThou'lt rue thy preaching, void thyself of sense.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nI'd say thou dotest, wert thou not my sire.\n\nCREON.\n\nSlave of a woman, do not gird at me!\n\nHAEMON.\n\nWouldst thou have all the talking to thyself?\n\nCREON.\n\nIndeed! By heaven above, thou shalt repent!\nThus censuring first and then reviling me.\nBring out that hateful thing that she may die\nForthwith, and here before her lover's eyes.\n\nHAEMON.\n\nNever before my eyes, believe it not;\nA witness of her death I will not be,\nNor shalt thou look upon my face again.\nRave at the friends who will thy raving brook.\n\n(_Exit_ HAEMON.)\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO Prince, the youth has rushed away in wrath,\nAnd at his years anguish is violent.\n\nCREON.\n\nLet him go vent his overweening pride;\nThese maidens twain shall not escape from death.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat? Is it thy resolve that both shall die?\n\nCREON.\n\nNot she that took no part. Thou hast well said.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat is to be the manner of her death?\n\nCREON.\n\nI will convey her to a lonely place,\nAnd shut her in a rock-hewn prison-house,\nWith food sufficient, for religion's sake,\nWhereby we from pollution save the State.\nThere unto Hades, her sole deity,\nPattering her prayers, she will drive death away,\nOr at the last be taught how vain it is\nTo spend devotion on the shades below.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE POWER OF LOVE._\n\nLINES 781-800.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nUnconquered love, against whose might\nWealth's golden mansion hath no ward,\nThat in the maiden's dimpled cheek by night\nKeepest thy guard;\nThe ocean wave to bear thy tread is taught;\nThe rural homestead, gods, and men are brought\nAlike thy power to own; who feels it is distraught.\n'Tis thou that upright hearts and pure dost lead\nFrom virtue's ways to ways of sin.\n'Tis thou whose influence in our Thebes does breed\nStrife among kin.\nO'er all prevails the charm of beauty's eyes,\nCharm that with Law Supreme in empire vies,\nFor Aphrodite's power all rebel force defies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_ANTIGONE IS SENT TO HER DEATH._\n\nLINES 882-928.\n\nCREON.\n\nBe sure, of wails and dirges before death,\nIf leave were given, we ne'er should have an end.\nLead her away and in the rocky vault\nForthwith immure her, as my order was.\nThere leave her by herself, either to die,\nOr linger on in that sepulchral cell.\nWe of this maiden's blood are clear, and yet\nShe will no longer dwell with those above.\n\nANTIGONE.\n\nO tomb, my bridal bower, O rock-hewn cell,\nMy home that art to be, whither I go\nTo meet my kin, of whom Persephone\nIn her dark mansion holds a multitude.\nLast of the train and most unfortunate,\nI now must die before my destined hour.\nAnd yet my hope is sure that by my sire,\nBy thee, beloved mother, and by thee,\nDearest of brothers, welcomed I shall be.\nThis hand washed every corpse and decked it out\nFor sepulture; this hand upon each grave\nLibations poured; and, Polynices, now\nIn tending thy remains I meet this doom.\nYet wisdom will approve my honouring thee:\nHad I a mother been and lost a child,\nHad I been wed and had my husband died,\nI would not thus have braved the public ire.\nWhat is my principle, perchance you ask?\nMy husband lost, I might have wed again,\nI might in time have borne a second child;\nBut, with both sire and mother in the grave,\nHope of a second brother there is none.\nUpon this principle I honoured thee,\nDearest of brothers; but to Creon seemed\nA sinner and the worst of criminals.\nAnd now he hales me to the place of death.\nFrom marriage and of bridal hymn cut off,\nCut off from joys of love and motherhood,\nAnd reft of friends, poor maiden as I am,\nI must go down into a living grave.\nAnd yet what law divine have I transgressed?\nHow could I look for succour to the gods?\nWhither for comfort go, when piety\nIs thus requited with the pains of sin?\nIf this is righteous in the eye of heaven,\nI'll own the justice of my chastisement;\nBut if the sin be on the other side,\nMay they but bear that which they lay on me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE CATASTROPHE._\n\nCreon, having been brought to repentance by the denunciations\nof the prophet Tiresias, sets out to bury the corpse of\nPolynices, and release Antigone from the cave of death. The\nissue is recounted by a messenger to the Queen Eurydice.\n\nLINES 1155-1243.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nYe, that by Cadmus and Amphion's shrine\nDo dwell, no mortal's life before its end\nWill be by me pronounced blessed or unblessed.\nFortune is ever casting down the high,\nFortune is ever lifting up the low;\nAnd none can prophesy what change may come.\nCreon I deemed an enviable man:\nHe from our enemy had saved our state,\nAnd, vested with a monarch's power supreme,\nRuled happy in the promise of his heir.\nNow all is gone, for when a man has lost\nThe things that make life sweet, he lives in truth\nNo more, but is an animated corpse.\nHave in your house what store of wealth you will,\nDwell in the state of sumptuous royalty,\nWhere joy is absent, I account the rest\nLess than a shadow of a wreath of smoke.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat evil has befallen our royal house?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nDead are some, others guilty of their death.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWho is the murdered, who the murderer, say.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHaemon is dead, unnaturally slain.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nSlain by whose hand, his father's or his own?\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nHis own, stung by his sire's cruel deed.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nO seer, thy prophesy has come too true.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nSo stands the case, whereon deliberate.\n\n(_Enter_ EURYDICE.)\n\nCHORUS.\n\nYonder is the ill-starred Eurydice,\nThe Queen of Creon; from the house she comes\nBy chance, or brought by tidings of her son.\n\nEURYDICE.\n\nCitizens all, I overheard your words,\nAs from our portal I was setting forth\nTo pay my vows to Pallas at her fane.\nJust as I drew the bolts that hold the door,\nSounds of disaster to our family\nSmote on my ear. Affrighted, I fell back\nIn my attendants' arms and swooned away.\nRepeat what then ye said; I am well schooled\nIn misery, and can bear to hear the worst.\n\nMESSENGER.\n\nGood lady, I was witness of the scene,\nAnd nothing will suppress in my report.\nWhy tell a flattering tale, when soon the lie\nMust be exposed? Plain truth is ever best.\nI went as an attendant with the King\nTo yon high level where, a prey to dogs,\nThe uncared-for corpse of Polynices lay.\nThe corpse, with prayers put up to Hecate\nAnd Pluto to look kindly on the dead,\nWe reverently washed, wrapped the remains\nIn fresh-plucked boughs, and burned them on a pyre.\nThen on the dead we heaped his native earth.\nNext to the maiden's bridal bower of death,\nWithin the hollowed rock, we took our way.\nOne of us hears afar a wailing shrill\nCome from the spot where lay the unhallowed cell.\nAnd running, tells to Creon what he heard.\nTo Creon's ear, as he drew nigh, was borne\nA sound confused of weeping, and he cried\nIn bitterness, \"Unhappy that I am,\nWill my heart prove a prophet? Have I come\nThe most disastrous journey of my life?\nSure it is my son's voice that greets my ear.\nAttendants, hasten to the cave of death,\nTear up the stones, creep to the chamber's mouth,\nTell me if Haemon's voice indeed I hear,\nOr is it some illusion of my sense?\"\nWe as our master in his anguish bade,\nLooked in, and in the inmost cell we saw\nThe maiden hanging from the roof and dead,\nA noose of shredded linen round her neck;\nThe youth, his arms folded around her waist,\nBewailing his lost bride, his marriage hour\nTurned to despair, his father's cruelty.\nSeeing him, Creon, with a bitter cry,\nMoved towards him, and in anguish shrieked to him,\n\"My son, what hast thou done? what frantic thought\nPossessed thy mind, how wast thou thus distraught?\nCome forth, I do entreat thee, son, come forth.\"\nHaemon, for answer, with eyes flashing rage,\nLooked mute abhorrence, drew his two-edged sword,\nAnd would have struck his father; but the King\nFled and escaped. Then on himself he turned\nHis wrath, and without more, into his breast\nDrove to the hilt his sword, and conscious still,\nClung round the maiden with his failing arms,\nWhile, swiftly welling from his wound, the blood\nSpread over her pale cheek its crimson shower.\nThere lies he dead, with arms around the dead,\nHis marriage feast held in the world below,\nTeaching by sad example that the worst\nOf human evils is a mind distraught.\n\n\n\n\nAJAX\n\n\nAjax and Ulysses were competitors for the arms of Achilles. The prize\nwas awarded to Ulysses. Ajax, deeming himself wronged, sallies forth\nfrom his tent one night to take vengeance on those who had wronged\nhim, especially Ulysses and the two sons of Atreus. Athene, ever\nwatchful for her favourite Hellenes, smites Ajax with mental\nblindness, so that instead of falling on his enemies, he falls on the\nflocks and herds of the camp. Restored to his right mind, and finding\nhow he has dishonoured himself, he falls upon his sword.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE HERO'S MADNESS._\n\nTecmessa, a captive with whom Ajax lives as his wife, tells the Chorus\nof Salaminian mariners what has befallen their chieftain.\n\nLINES 284-330.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nThou shalt hear all as one that shares our lot.\nIt was the dead of night, and now no more\nThe camp fires shone, when Ajax took his sword,\nUncalled, and was in act to leave the tent,\nAnd I reproved him. \"Ajax,\" I exclaimed,\n\"What errand is it upon which you go\nUnbidden, summoned by no messenger,\nNo trumpet call; the host is all asleep?\"\nBrief was his answer in a well-known strain:\n\"Peace, woman; silence best beseems thy sex.\"\nI said no more. He sallied forth alone.\nWhat may have there befallen I cannot say.\nBack to the tent he came, leading along\nAs captives bulls and herdsmen's dogs and sheep,\nOf which a part he strangled, others felled\nAnd cleft in twain; others again he lashed,\nTreating those beasts like human prisoners.\nThen rushing out, he with some phantom talked,\nLaunching against the sons of Atreus now,\nNow 'gainst Ulysses, ravings void of sense,\nBoasting how he had paid their insults home.\nThen once more rushing back into the tent,\nBy slow degrees to his right mind he came.\nBut when he saw the tent with carnage heaped,\nCrying aloud, he smote his head, and then\nFlung himself down amid the gory wreck,\nAnd with clenched fingers grasped and tore his hair.\nSo a long time he sat and spoke no word.\nAt last, with imprecations terrible\nIf I refused, he bade me tell him all,\nWhat had befallen and how it came about.\nAnd I, my friends, o'erwhelmed with terror, told\nAll that I knew of that which he had done.\nThereat he uttered piercing cries of grief,\nSuch as had never come from him before,\nFor in loud lamentations to indulge\nHe ever held a craven weakling's part,\nAnd, stifling outcries, moaned not loud but deep,\nLike the deep roaring of a wounded bull.\nBut in this plight, prostrate and desperate,\nRefusing food and drink, my hero lies\nAmidst the mangled bodies, motionless.\nThat he is brooding on some fell design,\nHis wails and exclamations plainly show.\nBut, O kind friends, 'twas to this end I came,\nEnter the tent and aid me if ye can;\nThe words of friends are desperate sorrow's cure.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_REMORSE_.\n\nAjax bewails his own fall. Tecmessa tries to comfort him,\nand turn him from violent courses.\n\nLINES 430-595.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nI know not how, in case so desperate,\nTo bid thee speak, or bid thee to refrain.\n\nAJAX.\n\nAlas! who would have thought my name would prove\n[Footnote: There is a play upon the name [Greek: Aias], the first\nsyllable of which is an ejaculation of sorrow unreproduceable in\nEnglish.]\nSo correspondent to the bearer's state?\nOnce and again that syllable of woe,\nBeing with woe o'erwhelmed, I may repeat.\nMy father once, from this Idaean land,\nCrowned with the prize of valour by the host,\nAnd full of glory, to his home returned;\nWhile I, his son, coming to this same land\nOf Troy with prowess no whit less than his,\nAfter achievements not less glorious,\nMeet from the Argives scorn and contumely.\nAnd yet of this much am I well assured,\nThat had Achilles living been the judge\nTo whom his arm and valours prize should go,\nMine, and mine only, would those arms have been.\nBut now the Atridae to a cunning knave,\nMy exploits misprized, have surrendered them.\nAnd had not strong delusion warped my sense,\nAnd clouded o'er my vision, never more\nWould they have an unrighteous sentence given.\nBut that stern-eyed, resistless child of Zeus,\nJust as I put forth my avenging hand,\nBrought madness on me, made me miss my aim,\nAnd dye my sword with blood of slaughtered kine.\nThey have escaped, and they will mock at me,\nThrough no default of mine. When deity\nBlasts the strong arm, weakness may strength defy.\nWhat now am I to do, since of the gods\nI am abhorred, of the Hellenic host\nHated, to Troy and all this land a foe?\nShall I to their own quarrel leave the Kings,\nUnmoor, and homeward cross the Aegean wave?\nHow can I face my father Telamon?\nHow can he bear to look upon the son\nWho comes to him disgraced, without the prize,\nWhen glory's wreath has circled his own brow?\nThat may not be. Then shall I fling myself\nAlone upon the Trojan battlements,\nAnd having done some deed of valour, fall?\nThat might to the two Kings some joy afford.\nThat, too, is naught. On something I must think\nWhereby I to my ag\u00e9d sire may prove\nThat from his loins sprung no unworthy son;\nFor vile it is to crave for longer life,\nWhen longer life brings no release from ill.\nHow can addition to the sum of days,\nWhen all is but a respite, joy bestow?\nI would not give a doit for any man\nWho lets his heart be fired with idle hopes.\nTo live with honour, or with honour die,\nAlone becomes the noble. I have done.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNone, Ajax, will pretend that these thy words\nAre not thy own, or come not from thy heart;\nBut now control thyself. Discard these thoughts,\nAnd let the counsels of thy friends prevail.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nAjax, my lord and master, man knows not\nAught sadder than a bondsman's helplessness.\nI, that a freeman for my father had,\nFirst of the Phrygian race in wealth and power,\nAm now a slave. So have the gods decreed,\nAnd thy strong arm determined. Of thy bed\nThus made the partner, I am true to thee,\nAnd do implore thee by our household Zeus,\nAnd by the couch which we together press,\nBe not so cruel as to leave thy mate\nIn thraldom, and a prey to slanderous tongues.\nKnow, when thou diest, thy protection gone,\nThe Argives will that self-same day drag off\nMe and thy helpless child to slavery.\nThen will some slave-master speak bitter words,\nVoiding his bile on us: 'Behold the mate\nOf Ajax, once the hero of our host,\nFallen from her pride of place to menial toil.'\nSo will they say. For me, where fate may drive\nI drift; but shame will be on thee and thine.\nThink of thy father, in his drear old age\nBereft of thee; think of thy mother, too,\nWith her grey head, who puts up many a prayer\nThat she may welcome home her son alive.\nHave pity on thy child, who will be left\nIn infancy, uncherished, and the ward\nOf unkind guardians; lay to heart the woes\nWhich loss of thee would bring on him and me.\nFor I have nothing left to which to look\nBut thee; thy spear has laid my city low,\nWhile, by another doom, my parents both\nHave gone to dwell in the abodes of death.\nWhat country can Tecmessa have but thee?\nWhat staff of life? thou art my all in all.\nBe mindful of thy mate; to taste love's joy\nIs to owe something to the claim of love.\nAffection still should be affection's meed;\nWhen kindness leaves no trace upon the soul,\nThat soul is void of true nobility.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAjax, I would thy heart could beat with mine,\nFor if it could, her words would win thy praise.\n\nAJAX.\n\nPraise in full measure shall she have from me,\nIf she has sense to do what I command.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nWhatever thou commandest, I will do.\n\nAJAX.\n\nBring me my boy that I may look on him.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nThe truth to tell, I sent him hence in fear.\n\nAJAX.\n\nIn fear of what? Of all this wretchedness?\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nFear that if thou shouldst meet him, he might die.\n\nAJAX.\n\nThat would have well beseemed my destiny.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nMy care prevented that calamity.\n\nAJAX.\n\nI do commend thy foresight heartily.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nWhat can I do herein to serve thee more?\n\nAJAX.\n\nLet me behold the boy and speak to him.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nHe is at hand in the attendant's care.\n\nAJAX.\n\nLet him come hither, then, without delay.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nMy child, thy father calls. Whoe'er thou art\nHis infant steps that guidest, bring him here.\n\nAJAX.\n\nIs the child out of hearing or at hand?\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nBehold, the servant leading him is near.\n\n(_Enter Attendant with_ EURYSACES.)\n\nAJAX.\n\nGive me the boy; he will not be afraid\nTo look upon this bloody slaughter-house,\nIf verily he is his father's son.\nAt once we must in his sire's rugged ways\nTrain the young colt and mould him like to me.\nBoy, mayst thou be more lucky than thy sire,\nElse his true son, and thou'lt be not amiss.\nAlready have I cause to envy thee,\nIn that thou knowest nothing of these woes;\nFor blessed are the days of ignorance,\nWhen joy and grief are both untasted still.\nBut when the time is come, see that thou show\nMy enemies what blood is in thy veins.\nTill then, sweet airs breathe on thine infancy.\nBe happy, boy, and cheer thy mother's heart.\nI ween the Achaean lives not that on thee\nWill dare to trample, e'en when I am gone,\nSo good a warden shall I leave for thee\nIn Teucer, who shall tend thee well, though now\nHe is far off, upon the foeman's trail.\nAnd now, my warriors, that have sailed with me,\nI crave one service at your loving hands,\nAnd pray ye will of Teucer crave the same:\nBear to my home the boy, that Telamon\nAnd Eriboea may their grandson see,\nAnd he may be the prop of their old age.\nMy arms, no judges, nor my honour's foe\nShall ere set up as prizes for the host.\nMy shield, Eurysaces, my son, take thou,\n[Footnote: Signifying \"him of the broad shield.\"]\nThy namesake, by its well-knit handles wield\nThe impenetrable orb of seven-fold hide.\nMy other arms shall share their master's grave.\nAnd now, Tecmessa, take the boy again;\nShut up the tent, and let us have no wails\nHere at the door; women are made of tears.\nShut up the tent, I say; never wise leech\nDid patter spells when steel was the sole cure.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nI tremble as I hear thy heated words,\nThe sharpness of thy speech disquiets me.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nAjax, my lord, what dost thou meditate?\n\nAJAX.\n\nQuestion me not. 'Tis good to be discreet.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nFear overwhelms my soul. Oh, by the gods,\nAnd by thy child, I pray desert us not.\n\nAJAX.\n\nThou art importunate. Dost thou not know\nThat I no more am debtor to the gods?\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nHush! Be not impious.\n\nAJAX.\n\nSpeak not to the deaf.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nWilt thou not yield?\n\nAJAX.\n\nThou pratest overmuch.\n\nTECMESSA.\n\nMy lord, I quake.\n\nAJAX.\n\nShut up the tent at once.\n\nTECMESSA.\nI do conjure thee.\n\nAJAX.\n\nSmall must be thy sense,\nIf thou dost think to put this heart to school.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE RESOLVE_.\n\nAjax pretends to be softened, and to be going forth only for the\nharmless purpose of purification in a running stream, though he is\nreally going to his death.\n\nLINES 646-692.\n\nAJAX.\n\nTime in its long, immeasurable course,\nTurns ever dark to light, and light to dark,\nAnd nothing is past hope; the solemn oath\nIs broken, and the stubborn heart gives way.\nI, that was hard as tempered steel erewhile,\nAm softened now by yonder woman's plaint.\nI cannot bear to leave her desolate,\nOr my boy fatherless among his foes.\nI'll go to the fresh baths which lie beside\nYon cliff, that, having washed pollution off,\nI may the goddess' heavy wrath avert.\nI'll seek me out a solitary spot,\nAnd there I'll hide this sword, this hateful sword,\nBurying it where it shall be seen no more;\nLet night and Hades be its armoury,\nFor ever since I took it as a gift\nFrom Hector, our most mortal enemy,\nOur Argive hearts have ne'er been kind to me.\nTrue is the word, the gifts of enemies\nAre no gifts, and they bring more loss than gain.\nSo for the future we shall learn to bow\nTo heaven's good will, and reverence the Kings;\nTheirs is the power, submission is our part.\nWhatever is most dread and masterful\nYields to authority: the winter's snow\nIn time makes way for summer crowned with fruits;\nIn time the weary round of night gives place\nTo the white steeds that bring returning day;\nIn time the blustering tempest leaves at rest\nThe roaring sea; in time profoundest sleep\nLoosens its bond, and lets the sleeper wake;\nWhy should not time bring wisdom to us too?\nBy all means shall it. I have lately learned\nThat we should hate our enemy as one\nWho yet may be a friend, and so far serve\nOur friend as one that may to-morrow be\nA friend no more, since, to the general,\nFriendship is but a doubtful anchorage.\nBut for these matters all is ordered well.\nGo in, Tecmessa, duly offer up\nThy prayers that my desire may be fulfilled.\nAnd you, my comrades, honour equally\nMy wishes, and bid Teucer, when he comes,\nBe a good friend to you and think of me.\nNow go I forth upon my destined way.\nDo ye my bidding, and ye soon may hear\nThat I have shuffled off this coil of ills.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE LAST SPEECH OF AJAX_.\n\nLINES 815-865.\n\nAJAX.\n\nThe sword is set where it may best strike home,\nIf leisure were to dally with such thoughts,\nThe sword that Hector gave, the bitterest foe\nAnd worst that I did ever treat withal;\nAnd it is planted in the soil of Troy,\nThat hostile soil, fresh whetted for its work.\nCarefully have I fixed it where it stands,\nThat quickly I may die, and painlessly.\nSo far all's well; in what comes now, O Zeus,\nOn thee for aid, and with good right, I call.\n'Tis no great favour that I crave of thee:\nLet some one bear to Teucer the ill news,\nThat he may be the first to lift my corpse\nFrom off the sword, fresh streaming with my blood.\nLet me not, by some foeman first espied,\nBe cast a prey to carrion fowl and dogs.\nThis, Zeus, I ask of thee, and I invoke\nHermes, who leads the dead, that at one bound\nPierced through, and with no lingering agony\nI may be laid in my eternal sleep.\nLast on the dread Erinnyes I call,\nThat ever-virgin sisterhood, who see\nAll that is done among mankind, to mark\nHow the Atridae have my ruin wrought.\nCome, ye swift powers of retribution, come,\nAnd flesh you on the whole Achaean host.\nThou sun, whose chariot traverses the sky,\nWhen on my native land thou lookest down,\nDraw for a while thy glittering rein, and tell\nThe story of my madness and my doom\nTo my grey-headed father, and to her\nThat bare me, and that when she hears this news\nWill make the city echo with her wail.\nBut to no purpose are these weak laments;\nThe thing must now be done, and done with speed.\nO death, O death, come and thy office do;\nLong, where I go, our fellowship will be.\nO thou glad daylight, which I now behold,\nO sun, that ridest in the firmament,\nI greet you, and shall greet you never more.\nO light, O sacred soil of my own land,\nO my ancestral home, my Salamis,\nFamed Athens and my old Athenian mates,\nRivers and springs and plains of Troy, farewell;\nFarewell all things in which I lived my life;\n'Tis the last word of Ajax to you all,\nWhen next I speak 'twill be to those below.\n\n\n\n\nELECTRA.\n\n\nThe subject of the \"Electra\" of Sophocles is the same as that of the\n\"Cho\u00ebphoroe\" (the Libation-bearers) of Aeschylus. It is the return of\nOrestes from exile to take vengeance on Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra,\nfor their murder of his father, Agamemnon. Electra plays the same part\nwhich she plays in the \"Cho\u00ebphoroe,\" while her sister, Chrysothemis,\nplays that of gentleness and comparative weakness. Orestes, in this\nplay, returns with a fictitious story of his death which throws\nAegisthus and Clytaemnestra off their guard.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE SNARE_.\n\nThe Paedagogos (tutor or governor) of Orestes, to circumvent\nClytaemnestra, tells her a fictitious story of her son's death by a\nfall in a chariot-race. Electra is on the scene.\n\nLINES 660-822.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nGood ladies, tell a stranger in your land,\nDoes King Aegisthus in this mansion dwell?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nHe does, my friend; thou hast conjectured right.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nShall I conjecture right if I take this\nTo be his Queen? She has a queenly look.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThou'rt right again; the Queen indeed she is.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nHail, royal lady. From a friend I bring\nNews good for thee and for Aegisthus too.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nThy words are pleasing to mine ear; but first\nI must inquire of thee, who sent thee here?\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nThe Phocian Phanoteus, on errand grave.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nSay what it is; for as the name is dear\nOf him that sent thee, glad will be thy news.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nOrestes is no more: that is the sum.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAlas! alas! I am undone this day.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nWhat? what? repeat it; listen not to her.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nAgain, I say, Orestes is no more.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIt is my death-blow; I am lost, am lost.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nLook to thyself, girl. Stranger, tell me true,\nIn what way was it that he met his doom?\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nTo this end was I sent; thou shalt hear all.\nTo those great games, the pride of Hellas, came\nOrestes, fain to win the Delphic prize.\nThere, when he heard the herald with loud voice\nProclaim the race, which is the first event,\nHe entered, dazzling, and admired of all;\nAnd shooting swift from starting-post to goal,\nBore off the prize of glorious victory.\nBriefly to speak, exploits so marvellous,\nSuch proofs of prowess, never did I see.\nKnow that in every foot-race that as wont\nThe presidents proclaimed, he, midst the cheers\nOf gratulating crowds, bore off the prize;\nWhile heralds loud proclaimed the victor's name,\nArgive Orestes, Agamemnon's son,\nHeir to the glory of that conqueror.\nSo far he prospered; but when heaven decrees\nThat man shall fall, man's might is vain to save.\nAnother day, when in the early morn,\nThe chariot race was held upon the course,\nOrestes came with many a charioteer.\nOne an Achaean, one a Spartan, was;\nTwo with their cars from distant Lybia came;\nOrestes with his steeds of Thessaly\nThe fifth, the sixth was an Aetolian,\nWith bright bay steeds; then a Magnesian,\nThen with white steeds an Aeneanian came;\nAthens, the god-built city, sent the ninth;\nIn the tenth chariot a Boeotian rode.\nTaking their stand, each where his lot was drawn,\nAnd as the masters of the games ordained,\nAt trumpet's sound they started, and at once,\nAll shouting to their steeds, they shook the reins\nTo urge them onwards, while the course was filled\nWith din of rattling chariots; rose the dust\nIn clouds, the racers, mingled in a throng,\nPlied, each of them, the goad unsparingly,\nTo clear the press of cars and snorting steeds,\nSo close, they felt the horses' breath behind,\nAnd all the whirling wheels were flecked with foam.\nOrestes showed his skill once and again,\nGrazing the pillar at the course's end,\nThe near horse well in hand, his mate let go.\nSo far had all the chariots safely run;\nBut now the hard-mouthed Aeneanian steeds\nO'erpowered their driver, and in wheeling round,\nJust as, the sixth stretch past, the seventh began,\nDashed front to front on the Barcaean car.\nDisaster on disaster came: now one\nAnd now another car was overturned\nAnd shattered; Crisa's plain was filled with wreck.\nThe skilful charioteer whom Athens sent\nThen drew aside, slackened his pace and gave\nThe surge of wild confusion room to pass.\nLast of the train Orestes drove, his steeds\nHolding in hand, and trusting to the end;\nBut seeing only the Athenian left,\nWith piercing shouts, urging his team to speed,\nHe made for him, and side by side the pair\nDrove onward, yoke even with yoke, now one\nAnd now the other leading by a head.\nThrough all the courses but the last that youth\nIll-starred stood safely in an upright car.\nBut at the last, slackening his left-hand rein,\nAs his horse turned the goal, he unawares\nThe pillar struck and broke his axle-tree.\nOut of the car he rolled, still in the reins\nEntangled, while his horses, as he fell,\nRushed wildly through the middle of the course.\nThe whole assembly, when they saw him fall,\nRaised a loud cry of horror at the fate\nOf him that was the hero of the games,\nSeeing him dragged along the ground, his feet\nAnon flung skyward; till some charioteers,\nWith much ado, stopping the headlong steeds,\nReleased him, but so mangled that no friend\nThe gory and disfigured corpse would know.\nThey laid him on the funeral pyre, and now\nHave Phocian envoys in a narrow urn\nBrought the poor ashes of that mighty frame\nFor sepulture in his ancestral tomb.\nSuch is my story. Sad enough for those\nWho hear; for those who saw most piteous\nOf all the sights that e'er these eyes beheld.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nAlas, alas! it seems the noble stock\nOf our old Kings is wholly rooted out.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nWhat shall I call this, Zeus? Is it good luck,\nOr gain with sorrow blended? Sad it is\nThat I should owe my safety to my dole.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nWhy art thou downcast, lady, at my words?\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nStrong is a mother's love; no injury\nCan make her hate the offspring of her womb.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nMy errand then is bootless, as it seems.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nBootless it is not, and it could not be,\nIf thou hast brought me certain evidence\nThat he is dead, who, owing life to me,\nRebelled against the breast that suckled him;\nWho, when self-banished, he had left the land\nLooked on my face no more; who, charging me\nWith his sire's murder, threatened vengeance dire,\nSo that sweet sleep neither by night nor day\nCould fold my weary sense, but every hour\nPassed in the shadow of impending death.\nNow--since this day doth end my fears from him,\nAnd from this maid, whose presence in my home,\nDraining the very life-blood of my heart,\nWas to me yet more baneful--now at last\nRid of their menaces, we dwell in peace.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAlas, alas! well may we wail for thee,\nOrestes, when thy mother can exult\nOver her child's poor ashes. Is this well?\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nNot well for thee, with him 'tis well enough.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHear, Nemesis, the prayer of him that's gone.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nThe right prayer she had heard and ratified.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThy tongue is free, fortune is on thy side.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nThou and Orestes soon will put us down.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWe put thee down? We are put down ourselves.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nStranger, thy mission would be blessed indeed\nIf thou could silence yonder termagant.\n\nPAEDAGOGOS.\n\nIf I am no more needed, let me go.\n\nCLYTAEMNESTRA.\n\nNay, it would shame my hospitality\nAnd his that sent thee, thus to let thee go.\nCome in with me, and leave this damsel here,\nTo mourn her friend's disasters and her own.\n\n(_Exeunt_ PAEDAGOGOS _and_ CLYTAEMNESTRA.)\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHow say ye? Does yon wretched woman seem\nDeeply to mourn and bitterly bewail\nThe son that has so miserably died?\nShe goes off mocking us. Woe worth the day!\nDearest Orestes, I have died in thee.\nFor thou hast carried with thee to the grave\nThe only hope that in my heart yet lived,\nThe hope that thou wouldst some day come to venge\nThy sire and me. Now whither can I turn?\nI am left desolate, deprived of thee,\nAs of my father. Once more I become\nThe slave of those whom I do hate like death,\nMy father's murderers. What a lot is mine!\nBut with those murderers I will dwell no more\nUnder one roof; an outcast at this gate\nI'll fling me down, and pine away my life.\nLet those within, then, if my grief offends,\nKill me at once. Welcome would be the blow;\nLife is a burden, death would be a boon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE SISTERS_.\n\nElectra's sister, Chrysothemis, having found the offering of Orestes\non his father's tomb, brings what she deems glad tidings to Electra,\nwho meets her with the announcement that the Pedagogos has just\nbrought certain news of their brother's death. Electra, now reduced to\ndespair, proposes to Chrysothemis that they should themselves attempt\nto slay Aegisthus.\n\nLINES 871-1057.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nJoy, dearest sister, has impelled my steps\nTo haste with no regard for dignity,\n[Footnote: Composure in gait and manner was the rule for Hellenic\nwomen.]\nI bring to thee glad tidings and relief\nFrom all the miseries thou hast undergone.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhence canst thou any aid or comfort draw\nFor my misfortunes which are past all cure?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nOrestes has come home. Doubt not my word.\nAs sure as now thou seest me, he is here.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHast thou gone mad, unhappy one, that thus\nThou mockest at my miseries and thy own?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nBy our ancestral hearth I swear to thee\nI say not this in mockery; he is here.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nO misery, from what mortal hast thou heard\nThis story that has gained thy fond belief?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nIt is no hearsay: mine own eyes have seen\nThe certain proofs of that which I believe.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat is the token? What has met thy gaze\nTo fire thy silly heart with fevered hope?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nOnly give ear to what I have to tell,\nThen call me mad, or not mad, as thou wilt.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nSpeak on, if thou hast pleasure in the tale.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nAll that I saw, I will recount to thee.\nWhen to our old ancestral tomb I came,\nI saw a stream of milk fresh running down,\nFrom the mound's summit, and our father's grave\nCrowned with a wreath of all the flowers that grow.\nThe sight amazed me and I looked around,\nFearing lest some intruder might be near.\nBut when I saw that all around was still,\nI drew near to the tomb, and on its edge\nI found a lock of hair, freshly cut off.\nWhen I beheld that lock, into my soul\nRushed a familiar image, and meseemed\nOrestes must have laid that token there.\nI took it up, I opened not my lips,\nBut in my eyes the tears of joy o'erflowed.\nThat from one hand alone this gift could come\nIs now, as then it was, my sure belief.\nWho else could lay it there save you or me?\nThat 'twas not I, is certain, and no less\nThat 'twas not you, when scarcely you have leave\nTo go forth to the temples of the gods;\nWhile, for our mother, she has little mind\nTo do such things, nor could she go unseen.\nIt is Orestes that his homage pays.\nBe of good cheer, my sister; destiny\nUnkind to-day, to-morrow may be kind.\nSo far it has been adverse, but this hour,\nPerchance, may prove the dawn of happiness.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nI pity as I hear thy foolish talk.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nWhy? Is not what I say sweet to thine ear?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThou know'st not what thou dost or where thou art.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nNot know the thing which my own eyes beheld?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHe's dead, poor foolish heart. These proofs of thine\nAre good for nothing. Look for him no more.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nUnhappy me; who was it told thee this?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nOne that was present when he met his end.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nAmazement fills my soul! Where is this man?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWithin there, and our mother's welcome guest.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nThy words o'erwhelm me. Who, then, could have laid\nAffection's offerings on our father's grave?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThat some one brought them as memorials\nOf dead Orestes, likeliest seems to me.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nUnhappy that I am! And full of joy\nI hastened with these tidings, ignorant\nOf our dark fate. I left the cup of grief\nFull, and I come to see it overflow.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nSo stands it now, but do what I advise,\nAnd thou mayest lighten yet this load of woe.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nHow? Can I bring the dead to life again?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nI meant not that, nor was so void of sense.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nWhat wouldst thou have, that is within my power?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nI'd have thee bravely do what I enjoin.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nSo it be helpful, I will not refuse.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nLook, without effort nothing will go well.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\n'Tis true, and I will aid with all my might.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHear now my resolution. Thou dost know\nThat we are friendless now; the friend we had\nHades has ta'en and left us desolate.\nWhile I still heard that our Orestes lived,\nAnd all was well with him, the hope remained\nThat he would come, and venge our murdered sire.\nBut now that he is gone I look to thee\nTo lend thy sister aid in taking off\nAegisthus; frankly such is my intent.\nWhere will thy sufferance end? what hope is left\nFor thee to look to? woe on woe is thine.\nOf thy sire's wealth thou'rt disinherited,\nAnd to this hour hast been condemned to pine\nIn cold companionless virginity.\nNor deem that thou shalt ever be a bride;\nAegisthus is not so devoid of sense\nAs to permit a shoot from thee or me\nTo spring which to his certain bane would grow.\nBut if thy soul can rise to my resolve,\nFirst to thy sire and brother there below\nThou wilt discharge the debt of piety;\nNext a free woman thou wilt be once more,\nAs thou wast born, and find a worthy mate,\nFor lover's eyes look to the good and brave.\nThen seest thou not what glory thou wilt win\nFor both of us, embracing my design?\nWhat citizen or foreigner will fail\nWhene'er we pass, to pay his meed of praise?\n\"Look at yon pair of sisters; these are they\nThat from its fall redeemed their father's house,\nThat setting their own lives upon the die,\nTheir enemies, in power uplifted, slew.\nTo these we all should loving homage pay,\nThese ever honour at our festivals\nAnd our assemblies for their bravery.\"\nSuch things the public voice will say of us,\nIn life or death our fame will never end.\nConsent, dear sister; for thy father strike,\nStrike for thy brother, rescue me from woe,\nRedeem thyself. Those who are nobly born\nHonour forbids to live the butt of scorn.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nForesight in matters such as these is good,\nFor those who give and those who take advice.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nBefore she spoke, ladies, had not her mind\nBeen quite perverted, she would have held fast\nThe caution which she utterly lets go.\nWhat puts it in thy heart, this desperate deed\nThyself to dare, and call on me to aid?\nDost thou not know that thou a woman art?\nAnd that our enemies are mightier far?\nWhile their good fortune waxes day by day,\nOurs wanes as fast and leaves us destitute.\nWho then that strikes at one so powerful\nCan fail to pluck down ruin on himself?\nBeware, lest to our ills we add more ill,\nIf these thy resolutions get abroad.\nLittle would all that glory profit us,\nIf we should die an ignominious death.\nAnd death is not the worst that may befall;\nIt is worse still to long for death in vain.\nI do conjure thee, ere thou ruin us\nBeyond redemption, and cut off our race,\nTo moderate thy wrath; what thou hast said\nI will regard as unsaid, null and void.\nDo thou at last get thee some sober sense,\nAnd yield to power as thou art powerless.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nTake her advice; there is not among men\nA better thing than foresight and good sense.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAll thou hast said I did anticipate;\nWhat I proposed I knew thou wouldst reject.\nAlone, with my own hand, I'll do the deed;\nMy resolution shall not come to naught.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nWhat now thou art, would thou hadst been the day\nThy father died: thou wouldst have ruled the hour.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIn heart I was the same, but not in sense.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nStrive still to keep the sense that then thou hadst.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThy preaching shows I shall not have thy aid,\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nNo, for the enterprise is desperate.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThy sense I envy, but thy spirit scorn.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nThy blame or praise to me is all the same.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nPraise from these lips thou needest never fear.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nThat will be seen hereafter: time is long.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nGet thee away, in thee there is no help.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nHelp is in me, knowledge in thee is not.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nGo, if thou wilt, and tell our mother all.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nHate if I must, not so far goes my hate.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIt goes so far as to dishonour me.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nNot to dishonour but to care for thee.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAnd is my justice to be led by thine?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nLearn to be wise, and thou shalt lead us both.\n\nELECTRA.\n\n'Tis pity when good talkers go astray.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nThou hast exactly hit thy own disease.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat! have I not, then, justice on my side?\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nJustice itself may sometimes lead us wrong.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nLet me not live where justice may be wrong.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nDo it and thou wilt see that I was right.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nDo it I will, and reckless of thy frown.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nThou wilt: and is no room for counsel left?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nBase counsel is a thing my soul abhors.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nIt seems that we shall never be agreed.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nOf that I was convinced a while ago.\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nI will begone: thy spirit will not brook\nMy counsel, nor can I thy ways approve.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nGo then, but never shall I follow thee,\nEntreat me as thou mayst, of that be sure:\nFools only look for that which none can find.\n[Footnote: As no help or sympathy can be found in Chrysothemis.]\n\nCHRYSOTHEMIS.\n\nIf thou dost seem unto thyself so wise\nHug thine own wisdom, soon in danger's hour\nThou wilt confess that I have counselled right.\n\n(_Exit_ CHRYSOTHEMIS.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE RECOGNITION_.\n\nOrestes enters with the urn which, it is pretended, contains his\nashes. His recognition ensues.\n\nLINES 1097-1231.\n\nORESTES.\n\nSay, ladies, have we been informed aright,\nAnd has our journey led us to our mark?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat is thy journey's mark? Whom dost thou seek?\n\nORESTES.\n\nI fain would learn where King Aegisthus dwells.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThou hast not been misled, this is the place.\nORESTES.\n\nWould one of you announce to those within.\nIn courteous wise that strangers twain are here?\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThat will this maid if kinship gives a claim.\n\nORESTES.\n\nGo, lady, then, and tell them in the house\nThat Phocian envoys for Aegisthus look.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAlas! ye bear I ween the certain proofs\nOf that which has already reached our ears.\n\nORESTES.\n\nI know not what that is; old Strophius\nHas charged me of Orestes news to bring.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nStranger, what is it? fear comes over me.\n\nORESTES.\n\nHe is no more, and here behold we bear\nHis poor remains, gathered in this small urn.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAlas! for me all doubt is over now;\nHere is the sorrow present to my touch.\n\nORESTES.\n\nIf for Orestes thou hast cause to mourn\nKnow that whate'er is left of him is here.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nFriend, if that urn indeed Orestes holds,\nGive it, I do conjure thee, to my hands,\nThat I may weep my own calamities,\nAnd those of our whole race, with this dear dust.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhoever she may be, give her the urn;\nHer wish approves her not an enemy\nBut a good friend, perchance one near in blood.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nDearest of all memorials to my heart,\nRelic of my Orestes, what a change\nFrom those fond hopes with which I sent thee forth!\nFull of bright promise wast thou then, and now\nI see thee here reduced to nothingness.\nWould I myself had died before the hour\nWhen from the murderous hands that sought thy life\nI snatched and sent thee to a foreign shore,\nSo hadst thou met thy end at once and slept\nIn thy forefather's tomb. Instead whereof\nThou hast died miserably far from home,\nAn exile, with no sister at thy side.\nI was not there with loving hand to wash\nThy corpse, to lay thee out, or gather up,\nAs nature bade, the relics of the pyre.\nStrange hands those rites performed; and thou art here,\nA little dust clipt in a narrow urn.\nUnhappy me! how bootless were the pains\nWhich many a day I spent in nursing thee,\nA labour that I loved, for thou wert not\nThy mother's darling more than thou wert mine.\nNo menial hands tended thy infancy,\nBut I thy sister, joying in that name.\nNow all has vanished in a single day,\nAnd thou art gone, and like a storm hast swept\nAll off with thee. My father is no more,\nThy sister dies in thee, thyself art dust.\nOur enemies exult, and, mad with joy,\nIs that unnatural mother, whom to smite\nWith thine own hand thou oft didst promise me,\nBy secret messages which destiny,\nUnkind to both of us, now brings to naught,\nSending me here, instead of that loved form,\nCold ashes and an ineffectual shade.\n\nAh me! ah me!\nPoor form.\nAlas! alas!\nSent to the saddest bourne.\nAh me! ah me!\nDearest of brothers, thou hast ruined me,\nRuined thy sister, brother of my love.\n\nReceive me now in that abode of thine,\nThat, dust to dust, I may abide with thee\nForever there below. When thou wast here,\nAll things were common to us; now I crave\nTo be thy mate in death and share thy tomb,\nFor there I see they do not sorrow more.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nElectra, think; a mortal was thy sire.\nOrestes was a mortal; calm thy grief\nFor loss is common to mortality.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhat can I say? words to my bursting heart\nAre wanting. I can check my tongue no more.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat is it troubles thee? What means thy speech?\n\nORESTES.\n\nCan what I see be fair Electra's face?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHer face it is, and in most piteous plight.\n\nORESTES.\nMy heart is wrung by looking on such woe.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nCan one unknown to thee thy pity move?\n\nORESTES.\n\nO beauteous wreck, by heaven and man disowned!\n\nELECTRA.\n\nThe picture limned in those sad words is mine.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWoe for thy cheerless and unwedded life.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhy dost thou gaze on me thus mournfully?\n\nORESTES.\n\nIt seems that of my woes I knew but half.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat have I said to breathe this thought in thee?\n\nORESTES.\n\n'Tis bred by sight of sorrow's effigy.\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat thou dost see is of my griefs the least.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhat can be worse than what I now behold?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat can be worse? Life with the murderers.\n\nORESTES.\n\nMurderers of whom? Thy tale of crime unfold.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nMy father's murderers, and their slave am I.\n\nORESTES.\n\nWhat tyrant has imposed on thee this yoke?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nMy mother, little worthy of that name.\n\nORESTES.\n\nAnd how? By persecution or by force?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nBy persecution, force, and all that's vile.\n\nORESTES.\n\nAnd hast thou none to save thee from her hands?\n\nELECTRA.\n\nOne such I had, and thou hast brought his dust.\n\nORESTES.\n\nUnhappy maid, my soul does pity thee.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nOnly in thee have I such pity found.\n\nORESTES.\n\nI also am a partner of thy woe.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nArt thou some kinsman come I know not whence?\n\nORESTES.\n\nThat thou shalt hear, provided these are friends.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAnd friends they are, thou mayest confide in them.\n\nORESTES.\n\nGive back that urn, and I will tell thee all.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nNay, I conjure thee; let me keep it still.\n\nORESTES.\n\nDo as I say and thou wilt not repent.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nO grant my prayer, and rob not this poor heart.\n\nORESTES.\n\nI must not leave it with thee.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWoe is me,\nOrestes, if I may not tend thy dust.\n\nORESTES.\n\nPeace, maiden, peace! thou hast no cause to mourn.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nNo cause to mourn, who have a brother lost?\n\nORESTES.\n\nTo speak of brothers lost is not for thee.\n\nELECTRA.\nHave I not then the mourner's privilege?\n\nORESTES.\n\nNaught hast thou lost, and hast no part in this.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nI have, if this contains my brother's dust.\n\nORESTES.\n\nIt does not, save in name and in pretence.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhere, then, does my ill-starred Orestes lie?\n\nORESTES.\n\nNowhere; for he who lives can have no grave.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nWhat dost thou say, young man?\n\nORESTES.\n\nI tell thee truth.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nHow! does he live?\n\nORESTES.\n\nSure as I live he lives.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAnd art thou he?\n\nORESTES.\n\nLook on this signet ring,\nOur father's once, and tell me if I lie.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nLight of my life, most dear.\n\nORESTES.\n\nMost dear indeed.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nIs it that voice I hear?\n\nORESTES.\n\nIt is that voice.\n\nELECTRA.\n\nAnd do these arms enfold thee?\n\nORESTES.\n\nAy, forever.\n\nELECTRA.\n\n(_To the_ CHORUS.)\n\nMy countrywomen and companions dear,\nBehold Orestes that erewhile was dead.\nDead by device now by device alive.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nMaiden, we do behold him; at the sight,\nThe tears of joy are gathering in our eyes.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRACHINIAE.\n\n\nDeianira, the wife of Hercules, fears that she has lost her husband's\nlove, and that it has been transferred to the beautiful captive Iole,\nwhom he has brought back with him on his return in triumph from the\nstorming of Oechalia. She bethinks her of a love-charm which she has\nlong had among her treasures. It is the blood of Nessus, the Centaur,\nwho, having offered her violence, and received his death-wound from\nHercules in her defence, had perfidiously persuaded her that his blood\nwould win back her husband's love. The blood, being infected with the\npoison of the Lernsean Hydra, in which the arrows of Hercules were\ndipped, proves the deadly instrument of the Centaur's posthumous\nvengeance. Deianira sends a robe sprinkled with it as a gift to\nHercules, who, having put on the robe to offer his triumphal\nsacrifice, expires in fiery torments.\n\nThe play is called from the Trachinian women who form the Chorus.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE LOVE-CHARM._\n\nDeianira imparts the secret of her device to the Chorus, and puts the\nfatal robe into the hands of Lichas, the Herald who has brought Iole\nto the house, that he may carry it to Hercules.\n\nLINES 531-632.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nGood friends, while yonder stranger, ere he part,\nIs talking to the captive maids within,\nI come forth secretly to speak to you.\nWhat I devise I would to you confide,\nAnd for my trouble I crave your sympathy.\nThat maid, a maid no more I guess, but wed,\nI have received on board my barque, a bale\nOf mockery and of outrage for my heart;\nAnd now we twain beneath one quilt must lie,\nAnd share the same embrace. Thus Heracles,\nThat excellent and faithful spouse of mine,\nRepays the long-tried guardian of his home.\nTo play the angry wife I know not how,\nSo oft has he been sick of this disease.\nBut with this wench to dwell in partnership\nAs second wife, what woman could endure?\nMy youthful beauty now is on the wane,\nWhile hers is growing, and the lover's eye\nTurns from the withering to the blooming flower.\nHeracles will, I fear, be mine in name,\nIn deed, the husband of a younger wife.\nBut, as I said, no wife not void of sense\nWill show her wrath. The talisman, my friends,\nThat is to work the cure ye now shall hear.\nI hold safe treasured in a brazen urn\nThe keepsake which a Centaur gave of old.\nFrom shaggy Nessus when I was a maid\nI had it, 'twas his dying legacy.\nHe over deep Evenus stream was wont\nIn his own arms to carry passengers,\nNot using oars nor sails to ferry them.\nAnd when, from my paternal home sent forth,\nA bride I journeyed with my Heracles,\nBearing me on his back, in the midstream\nHe laid rash hands on me. I shrieked aloud.\nThe son of Zeus turned him and quick let fly\nA shaft that, hurtling through the Centaur's chest,\nTransfixed him. Feeling that his end was come,\nThe monster said to me, \"Old Oeneus' child,\nAs thou art my last fare, hearken to me:\nThou shall have cause to thank thy ferryman.\nIf thou wilt bear away this clotted blood\nThat marks the spot whereon the arrow steeped\nIn the Lernaean Hydra's venom fell;\nIn it thou'lt ever find a spell to bind\nThe heart of Heracles, and to prevent\nHis loving any woman in thy stead.\"\nOf this love-charm, my friends, bethinking me,\nAs, kept with care, it in my closet lay,\nI steeped a robe in it, adding whate'er\nThe Centaur bade, and now my work is done.\nBlack arts I know not nor desire to know,\nAnd all who practise such abominate;\nBut if so be, we can with this love-charm\nWin from yon maid the heart of Heracles,\nThe means are found, unless my plan to thee\nSeems ill-advised; if so, I give it o'er.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nNay, if in any plan we could confide,\nThine, in our judgment, is not ill-advised.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nSo far I can confide as judgment serves,\nFor no trial of the charm has yet been made.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThen make one; knowledge that thou seemst to have\nThou hast not, till experience set its seal.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nAll doubts will soon be cleared; here Lichas comes\nForth from the house, and soon he will be here.\nOnly, my friends, keep ye my counsel well;\nSin in the dark and thou shalt not be sham'd.\n\nLICHAS.\n\nDaughter of Oeneus, what are thy commands?\nToo long already have we been delayed.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nTo speed thy going I was taking thought,\nWhile thou wert talking to the stranger maid.\nBear this well-woven garment to my lord,\nAn offering from his Deianira's hand.\nEnjoin him straightly that before himself\nNo man be suffered to put on this robe,\nAnd that it be exposed to no sun's ray,\nNo sacred altar's fire, no blazing hearth,\nUntil himself before the gods shall stand\nDight in it on the day of sacrifice.\nI registered a vow that when I saw\nOr heard of his home-coming, in this robe\nI would attire him, that before the gods\nFreshly in fresh array he might appear.\nFor token bear with thee this signet ring,\nWhich, when he sees it, he will recognise.\nSet forth; first keep the law of messengers,\nWhich bids them not beyond their mission go.\nThen what is now my husband's single debt,\nIf thou canst, double by my gratitude.\n\nLICHAS.\n\nFear not, if I am Hermes' liegeman true,\nThat I shall fail thy bidding to perform,\nTo place this casket in thy husband's hands,\nAnd therewith thy assurances repeat.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nProceed then on thy road; thou canst report\nTo my good lord that all is well at home.\n\nLICHAS.\n\nI know and shall report that all is well.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nThyself didst witness in how gentle wise\nWe did receive and welcome yonder maid.\n\nLICHAS.\n\nThe sight astonished and delighted me.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nThen all thou hast to say is said. I fear\nThat thou wilt tell of my fond love for him\nEre thou canst tell of his fond love for me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE CENTAUR'S REVENGE._\n\nDeianira recounts to the Chorus an alarming and portentous incident.\nThen Hyllus, the son of Hercules, comes and announces the catastrophe.\n\nLINES 663-820.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nMaidens, I greatly fear that I have gone,\nIn what I did, beyond the line of right.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nDaughter of Oeneus, say whence comes thy fear?\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nI know not; but I tremble lest my act,\nDone with fair hope, should end with foul mischance.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nThou dost not mean thy gift to Heracles?\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nTis so, and I would counsel every one\nNot to go fast, unless their way is sure.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nTell, if thou may'st, what causes thy alarm.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nA thing has happened, maidens, which when told\nWill fill your minds with awe and wonderment.\nThe tuft of wool, fresh shorn and bright, wherewith\nI spread the ointment on that robe of state,\nBy no one of my household train destroyed,\nBut self-consumed, has vanished out of sight.\nAnd on the pavement melted quite away.\nThat thou may'st know the whole, let me proceed.\nOf all the Centaur in his agony,\nPierced by the deadly arrow, bade me do,\nI naught forgot, but treasured every word,\nAs if inscribed on brass indelibly;\nWhat he prescribed and I performed was this,\nThat I should keep this unguent closely shut\nBeyond the reach of sun-heat or of fire,\nUntil the time had come for using it.\nAnd so I did; but now, the occasion ripe,\nI in my secret chamber laid it on,\nWith wool shorn from a sheep of our own flock;\nAnd letting not the sunlight touch my gift,\nFolded it in a casket, as ye know.\nEntering the house again, I saw a sight\nPassing the wit of man to understand:\nThe tuft of wool with which I had laid on\nThe unguent, I by chance had thrown aside\nInto the sunshine, where, as it grew warm,\nIt crumbled all away, and on the ground\nLay scattered, as when wood is being sawn\nWe see the dust fall from the biting saw.\nSo did it look; and after, from the earth\nWhere it had lain, a clotted foam broke forth,\nAs when in mellow Autumn the rich juice\nOf Bacchic vine is spilled upon the ground.\nMy mind distraught knows not which way to turn,\nBut something dreadful have I surely done.\nHow should the Centaur, in his agony,\nHave sought to serve her that had caused his death?\nHe could not. To avenge him on the hand\nThat sped the shaft he cozened me, and I\nSee his fell purpose when it is too late.\nI, if my boding soul deceive me not,\nAlone shall be my hero's murderess.\nThat by which Nessus died was Chiron's bane,\nImmortal though he was, all animals\nStruck by it die; and shall not the dark blood,\nThat, poisoned by it, flowed from Nessus' wound,\nBe fatal to my lord? Surely it will.\nBut if my lord miscarry, my resolve\nIs fixed to keep him company in death.\nA life of infamy she cannot bear\nThat would be true to her nobility.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nShudder we must where is much cause for fear,\nYet let us hope till the event decides.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nHope, where the act is guilty, there is none,\nOr none that can bring comfort to the breast.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nBut against those that sin unwittingly,\nAnger is mild, and will be mild to thee.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nAy, so say those that of the guilt are clear,\nAnd have no heavy burden on their hearts.\n\nCHORUS.\n\nWhat more thou art in act to say withhold,\nUnless thou wouldst unbosom to thy son.\nHe went to seek his sire and now is here.\n\n(_Enter_ HYLLUS.)\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nMother! I would that of three wishes one\nCould be fulfilled: I would that thou wert not,\nOr that another were thy son than I,\nOr that my mother had a better mind.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nWhat in thy mother thus thy horror moves?\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nKnow that thy husband, rather should I say\nMy father, dies this day murdered by thee.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nAlas! my son, what word has passed thy lips?\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nA word too sure of its accomplishment.\nThe event once born can never be annulled.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nWhat dost thou say, my son? whence didst thou learn\nThat I had done a deed so horrible?\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nLearn it I did not from another's lips:\nThese eyes beheld my father's piteous fate.\n\nDEIANIRA.\n\nWhere didst thou into his loved presence come?\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nHear and I'll tell thee all. As having stormed\nThe famous town of Eurytus, he marched,\nWith spoils and trophies of his victory.\nAt the Cenaean headland he arrived,\nEuboea's point, and there set out for Zeus\nAltars ancestral and a precinct green.\nHere met I him whom I had longed to see.\nAs he stood ready for the sacrifice\nComes his own herald Lichas from his home,\nAnd brings thy gift, that robe imbrued with death,\nWhich he, fulfilling thy behest, put on,\nAnd therein clad, was offering sacrifice,\nTwelve steers unblemished, while of beasts in all\nHe to the altars led a hecatomb.\nAt first, unhappy one, with jocund heart\nHe prayed, rejoicing in his brave attire;\nBut when from the good oak logs and the flesh\nOf victims slain, the bloody flame leaped forth.\nA sweat broke out on him, and to his sides\nThe garment clave, enfolding every joint\nAs by a workman fitted, while his bones\nWere racked with shooting pains, and as it seemed\nA deadly serpent's venom fed on him.\nThen did he loud on hapless Lichas call,\nHim who was nowise party to thy crime,\nAnd bade him say what wretch had set him on\nTo bring the robe. The herald knowing naught,\nSaid as thou badst him, that it was thy gift.\nWhereupon Heracles, his heartstrings grasped\nBy agonising pains that pierced him through,\nSeized Lichas by the ankle, hurled him down\nFrom the cliff's edge upon a wave-washed rock\nThat jutted from the sea, shattered his skull,\nSo that his brains streamed mingled with his blood.\nAt the two sights, of frenzy and of death,\nA universal cry of horror rose,\nNor was there one who dared approach my sire;\nHe in convulsions now sprang up, now fell\nWith yells which made the neighbouring cliffs, the crags\nOf Locris and Euboea's headland ring.\nOft did he cast himself upon the ground,\nLong did he utter lamentations loud,\nCursing his marriage, swearing that his tie\nTo Oeneus had brought ruin on his life.\nWhen he gave o'er, with eye upturned with pain,\nGlancing from out the smoke, me, in the crowd,\nWeeping he saw, and called me to his side.\n\"My son,\" he murmured, \"shrink not from thy sire,\nNot though it be thy doom to die with him.\nBear me away and lay me, if thou may'st,\nWhere none may look upon my agony.\nIf that would pain thee from this hated coast\nShip me at least, and let me not die here.\"\nObedient to his wish, with much ado\nWe laid him in the hold and hither brought\nConvulsed and bellowing. Ye will see him soon,\nLingering upon life's verge or newly dead.\nMother, of these dark crimes thou stand'st convict,\nFor which may heaven's high justice deal with thee\nAnd the Erinnyes, if that prayer is meet\nFor a son's lips; and thou hast made it meet\nBy murdering, of all dwellers upon earth,\nThe noblest man, whose peer thou ne'er shalt see.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n(_To_ DEIANIRA _who leaves the scene_.)\n\nCanst thou depart in silence and not see\nThat silence pleads on the accuser's side?\n\nHYLLUS.\n\nLet her go where she will. Fair be the wind\nThat bears out of my sight that hated barque.\nA mother's name is but a hollow sound\nWhen all her doings are unmotherly.\nMay joy go with her, and such happiness\nBe hers, as she has made my sire to feel.\n\n\n\n\nPHILOCTETES.\n\n\nPhiloctetes is the possessor of the bow and arrows of Hercules,\nwithout which Troy, which has now been besieged for ten years, cannot\nbe taken. Suffering from an ulcer caused by the bite of the Hydra, and\nbecoming intolerable by his yells of anguish to the Hellenic camp, he\nhas been put ashore by Ulysses on the lonely island of Lemnos, and\nthere left for the ten years, whence he has conceived a deadly hatred\nof Ulysses and the Hellenic host. His bow and arrows being\nindispensable, the crafty Ulysses undertakes the task of inveigling\nhim, and goes to Lemnos for that purpose, taking with him Neoptolemus,\nthe young and generous son of Achilles, as a decoy. Neoptolemus, at\nthe instance of Ulysses, filches from Philoctetes the bow and arrows,\nbut being overcome by his nobler nature restores them. Here is now a\ncrisis worthy of the intervention of a god. Hercules descends upon the\nscene, bids Philoctetes go to Troy with his bow, and promises to send\nAesculapius to heal him of his sickness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE DECOY._\n\nUlysses explains the plan of action to Neoptolemus, and labours to\nbend him to his purpose.\n\nLINES 1-134.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nThis is the shore of Lemnos' lonely isle,\nBy man untrodden, where, O worthy son\nOf great Achilles, by our Hellas deemed\nHer mightiest chief, Neoptolemus, erewhile\nThe Melian son of Poeas I cast forth,\nThe Princes having so commanded me,\nSince in his foot he had a wasting sore,\nAnd would not let us sacrifice or pour\nLibations undisturbed, but filled the camp\nWith lamentations wild and blasphemous,\nYelling in agony. Yet why dilate,\nOn what has happened? We will stint our words;\nHe may espy my presence, and my plan\nOf capturing him be ruined utterly.\nNow must thy part be done; look round and see\nWhere is a rocky cave with double mouth,\nSo formed that in the winter twice the sun\nFalls on the sitter, and in summer time\nThe breeze wafts slumber through two apertures.\nA little way below, on the left hand,\nThou'lt find a spring, if it is running still.\nApproach, and signal to me silently\nWhether he is near by or is gone forth,\nThat I may then impart the rest to thee,\nAnd we may jointly execute my plan.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nMy work, Ulysses, has been quickly done.\nMethinks I see the cave of which you speak.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nIs it above us, tell me, or below?\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nAbove us here, and sound of step is none.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nSee that he is not sleeping in his lair.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nI look, and none in the retreat appears.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nAnd is there naught to show that man dwells there?\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nA bed of leaves, as though one couched thereon.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nIs all else bare? Is there no garniture?\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nThere is a wooden cup, the handiwork\nOf some rough workman, and these kindling-sticks.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nThy inventory shows that he is here.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nFaugh! here are rags left in the sun to dry,\nFull of the running of some putrid sore.\n\nULYSSES.\n\n'Tis plain enough that here his dwelling is.\nHimself, too, must be near; for how could one,\nLame with an ancient ulcer, travel far?\nHe has gone forth either for provender,\nOr to bring home some herb which soothes his pain.\nSend thy attendant to explore the coast,\nLest unawares I should fall in with him:\nAll Hellas were not such a prize as I.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nThe attendant is despatched; watch will be kept.\nGo on and tell me what thou dost desire.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nSon of Achilles, what thou cam'st to do.\nThou must do bravely, not with hand alone,\nBut with thy heart, and if I ask aught new\nBlench not; it is to aid me thou art here.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nWhat wouldst thou have me do?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nBeguile the mind\nOf Philoctetes by thy wily words.\nWhen he asks who thou art, and whence, reply\nAchilles' son; no lie is needed here.\nBut say thou'rt sailing homeward, having left\nThe Achaean host in mortal enmity,\nSince, when their prayers had drawn thee from thy home,\nThey having no hope else of taking Troy,\nThey did refuse the arms Achilles bore\nTo the right heir, when he demanded them,\nAnd gave them to Ulysses, heaping all\nThe foul reproaches that thou wilt on me,\nFor they'll not hurt me. If thou dost this not,\nThou wilt bring woe on the whole Argive host,\nFor if we fail yon archer's bow to win,\nThou ne'er shalt conquer the Dardanian land.\nThat thou canst safely and with confidence\nApproach him, while I cannot, this will prove:\nThou didst not sail constrained by any oath,\nNor by compulsion, nor in the first fleet;\nBut I can nothing of all this deny.\nMe if, still master of his arms, he sees,\nI am undone, and shall undo thee too.\nThy task, then, is out of his hands to steal\nBy subtlety, the unconquerable bow.\nWell do I know thy nature is not formed\nFor falsehood, nor for treacherous device,\nBut still success is sweet; stretch but a point,\nTo-morrow we'll return to righteousness.\nFor a small part of one brief day consent\nTo play the knave, then to the end of life\nBe virtue's paragon and cynosure.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nSon of Laertes, what my ears abhor\nTo hear, my hand abhors to execute.\nSo was it, as they tell me, with my sire.\nTo take the man by force and not by guile\nI am prepared: he is alone and lame,\nWhile we are many: he would strive in vain.\nCommissioned as I am to second thee,\nI must be loyal, but would rather lose\nWith honour, than dishonourably win.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nSon of a glorious sire, myself in youth\nWas ready with my hand, and slow of tongue.\nExperience has taught me that the tongue\nIs a man's leading member, not his hand.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nWhat is it thou dost bid me do but lie?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nI bid thee Philoctetes circumvent.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nWill not persuasion work as well as guile?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nHe will not yield, and force him thou canst not.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nHas he such might as to defy us all?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nHe has the unerring arrows winged with death.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nIs it not safe e'en to encounter him?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nOnly if thou canst snare him as I say.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nSeems it not shameful to thee thus to lie?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nNo, if the lie alone can do our work.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nHow look him in the face and say such things?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nWith gain in view our scruples must give way.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nSuppose him brought to Troy, what gain to me?\n\nULYSSES.\n\nTroy can be taken only by his bow.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nI, then, am not to be her conqueror.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nNot by thyself, nor without thee the bow.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nIf so it be, the bow must be secured.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nSecure it and a double meed is thine.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nProve this to me, and I will do thy will.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nThou wilt be hailed at once as wise and brave.\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nWell, I will do it; all my qualms are gone.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nCanst thou remember what erewhile I taught?\n\nNEOPTOLEMUS.\n\nThat can I, since my word has once been passed.\n\nULYSSES.\n\nThen bide thou here, and wait for his approach:\nI will withdraw, lest I should meet his eye.\nOur sentinels shall to the ship return,\nAnd if ye seem to me to tarry long,\nI will despatch the same man back again,\nHaving disguised him as a shipmaster,\nThat unsuspect he may my bidding do.\nMy son, in riddles he will speak to thee,\nAnd see that thou dost read his riddle right.\nI'll to the ship and leave the rest to thee.\nMay Hermes, god of cunning, help his own,\nAnd may Athene, Queen of victory\nAnd cities, save her votary once more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_THE HERO BETRAYED._\n\nNeoptolemus, having filched the bow of Philoctetes, Philoctetes prays\nhim to restore it.\n\nLINES 927-962.\n\nPHILOCTETES\n\nO pest, O bane, O of all villainy\nVile masterpiece, what hast thou done to me?\nHow am I duped? Wretch, hast thou no regard\nFor the unfortunate, the suppliant?\nThou tak'st my life when thou dost take my bow.\nGive it me back, good youth, I do entreat.\nO by thy gods, rob me not of my life.\nAlas! he answers not, but as resolved\nUpon denial, turns away his face.\nO havens, headlands, lairs of mountain beasts,\nThat my companions here have been, O cliffs\nSteep-faced, since other audience have I none,\nIn your familiar presence I complain\nOf the wrong done me by Achilles' son.\nHome he did swear to take me, not to Troy.\nAgainst his plighted faith the sacred bow\nOf Heracles, the son of Zeus, he steals,\nAnd means to show it to the Argive host.\nHe fancies that he over strength prevails,\nNot seeing that I am a corpse, a shade,\nA ghost. Were I myself, he had not gained\nThe day, nor would now save by treachery.\nI am entrapped. Ah me! what can I do?\nYet be thyself and give me back my bow.\nSay that thou wilt. He speaks not; I am lost.\nO rock, with twofold doorway, I return\nTo thee disarmed, bereft of sustenance.\nDeserted, I shall wither in that cell,\nNo longer slaying bird or sylvan beast\nWith yonder bow. Myself shall with my flesh\nNow feed the creatures upon which I fed,\nAnd be by my own quarry hunted down.\nThus shall I sadly render blood for blood,\nAnd all through one that seemed to know no wrong.\nCurse thee I will not till all hope is fled\nOf thy repentance; then accursed die.","title":"Specimens of Greek Tragedy \u2014 Aeschylus and Sophocles","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":43436}