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The Agamemnon of Aeschylus

Aeschylus

(_The return of the funeral urns; the murmurs of the People._) And the gold-changer, Ares, who changeth quick for dead, Who poiseth his scale in the striving of the spears, Back from Troy sendeth dust, heavy dust, wet with tears, Sendeth ashes with men’s names in his urns neatly spread. And they weep over the men, and they praise them one by one, How this was a wise fighter, and this nobly-slain— “Fighting to win back another’s wife!” Till a murmur is begun, And there steals an angry pain Against Kings too forward in the strife. There by Ilion’s gate Many a soldier sleepeth, Young men beautiful; fast in hate Troy her conqueror keepeth. (_For the Shedder of Blood is in great peril, and not unmarked by God. May I never be a Sacker of Cities!_) But the rumour of the People, it is heavy, it is chill; And tho’ no curse be spoken, like a curse doth it brood; And my heart waits some tiding which the dark holdeth still, For of God not unmarked is the shedder of much blood. And who conquers beyond right … Lo, the life of man decays; There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years; He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies. There is peril in the praise Over-praised that he hears; For the thunder it is hurled from God’s eyes. Glory that breedeth strife, Pride of the Sacker of Cities; Yea, and the conquered captive’s life, Spare me, O God of Pities! DIVERS ELDERS. —The fire of good tidings it hath sped the city through, But who knows if a god mocketh? Or who knows if all be true? ’Twere the fashion of a child, Or a brain dream-beguiled, To be kindled by the first Torch’s message as it burst, And thereafter, as it dies, to die too. —’Tis like a woman’s sceptre, to ordain Welcome to joy before the end is plain! —Too lightly opened are a woman’s ears; Her fence downtrod by many trespassers, And quickly crossed; but quickly lost The burden of a woman’s hopes or fears. [_Here a break occurs in the action, like the descent of the curtain in a modern theatre. A space of some days is assumed to have passed and we find the Elders again assembled_.] LEADER. Soon surely shall we read the message right; Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light True speakers, or but happy lights, that seem And are not, like sweet voices in a dream. I see a Herald yonder by the shore, Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore Rent raiment cries a witness from afar, Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war, That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke; But either shouting for a joyful day, Or else…. But other thoughts I cast away. As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray! —And whoso for this City prayeth aught Else, let him reap the harvest of his thought! [_Enter the_ HERALD, _running. His garments are torn and war-stained. He falls upon his knees and kisses the Earth, and salutes each Altar in turn._] HERALD. Land of my fathers! Argos! Am I here … Home, home at this tenth shining of the year, And all Hope’s anchors broken save this one! For scarcely dared I dream, here in mine own Argos at last to fold me to my rest…. But now—All Hail, O Earth! O Sunlight blest! And Zeus Most High! [_Checking himself as he sees the altar of Apollo._] And thou, O Pythian Lord; No more on us be thy swift arrows poured! Beside Scamander well we learned how true Thy hate is. Oh, as thou art Healer too, Heal us! As thou art Saviour of the Lost, Save also us, Apollo, being so tossed With tempest! … All ye Daemons of the Pale! And Hermes! Hermes, mine own guardian, hail! Herald beloved, to whom all heralds bow…. Ye Blessèd Dead that sent us, receive now In love your children whom the spear hath spared. O House of Kings, O roof-tree thrice-endeared, O solemn thrones! O gods that face the sun! Now, now, if ever in the days foregone, After these many years, with eyes that burn, Give hail and glory to your King’s return! For Agamemnon cometh! A great light Cometh to men and gods out of the night. Grand greeting give him—aye, it need be grand— Who, God’s avenging mattock in his hand, Hath wrecked Troy’s towers and digged her soil beneath, Till her gods’ houses, they are things of death; Her altars waste, and blasted every seed Whence life might rise! So perfect is his deed, So dire the yoke on Ilion he hath cast, The first Atreides, King of Kings at last, And happy among men! To whom we give Honour most high above all things that live. For Paris nor his guilty land can score The deed they wrought above the pain they bore. “Spoiler and thief,” he heard God’s judgement pass; Whereby he lost his plunder, and like grass Mowed down his father’s house and all his land; And Troy pays twofold for the sin she planned. LEADER. Be glad, thou Herald of the Greek from Troy! HERALD. So glad, I am ready, if God will, to die! LEADER. Did love of this land work thee such distress? HERALD. The tears stand in mine eyes for happiness. LEADER. Sweet sorrow was it, then, that on you fell. HERALD. How sweet? I cannot read thy parable. LEADER. To pine again for them that loved you true. HERALD. Did ye then pine for us, as we for you? LEADER. The whole land’s heart was dark, and groaned for thee. HERALD. Dark? For what cause? Why should such darkness be? LEADER. Silence in wrong is our best medicine here. HERALD. Your kings were gone. What others need you fear? LEADER. ’Tis past! Like thee now, I could gladly die. HERALD. Even so! ’Tis past, and all is victory. And, for our life in those long years, there were Doubtless some grievous days, and some were fair. Who but a god goes woundless all his way?…. Oh, could I tell the sick toil of the day, The evil nights, scant decks ill-blanketed; The rage and cursing when our daily bread Came not! And then on land ’twas worse than all. Our quarters close beneath the enemy’s wall; And rain—and from the ground the river dew— Wet, always wet! Into our clothes it grew, Plague-like, and bred foul beasts in every hair. Would I could tell how ghastly midwinter Stole down from Ida till the birds dropped dead! Or the still heat, when on his noonday bed The breathless blue sea sank without a wave!…. Why think of it? They are past and in the grave, All those long troubles. For I think the slain Care little if they sleep or rise again; And we, the living, wherefore should we ache With counting all our lost ones, till we wake The old malignant fortunes? If Good-bye Comes from their side, Why, let them go, say I. Surely for us, who live, good doth prevail Unchallenged, with no wavering of the scale; Wherefore we vaunt unto these shining skies, As wide o’er sea and land our glory flies: “By men of Argolis who conquered Troy, These spoils, a memory and an ancient joy, Are nailed in the gods’ houses throughout Greece.” Which whoso readeth shall with praise increase Our land, our kings, and God’s grace manifold Which made these marvels be.—My tale is told. LEADER. Indeed thou conquerest me. Men say, the light In old men’s eyes yet serves to learn aright. But Clytemnestra and the House should hear These tidings first, though I their health may share. [_During the last words_ CLYTEMNESTRA _has entered from the Palace_.] CLYTEMNESTRA. Long since I lifted up my voice in joy, When the first messenger from flaming Troy Spake through the dark of sack and overthrow. And mockers chid me: “Because beacons show On the hills, must Troy be fallen? Quickly born Are women’s hopes!” Aye, many did me scorn; Yet gave I sacrifice; and by my word Through all the city our woman’s cry was heard, Lifted in blessing round the seats of God, And slumbrous incense o’er the altars glowed In fragrance. And for thee, what need to tell Thy further tale? My lord himself shall well Instruct me. Yet, to give my lord and king All reverent greeting at his homecoming— What dearer dawn on woman’s eyes can flame Than this, which casteth wide her gate to acclaim The husband whom God leadeth safe from war?— Go, bear my lord this prayer: That fast and far He haste him to this town which loves his name; And in his castle may he find the same Wife that he left, a watchdog of the hall, True to one voice and fierce to others all; A body and soul unchanged, no seal of his Broke in the waiting years.—No thought of ease Nor joy from other men hath touched my soul, Nor shall touch, until bronze be dyed like wool. A boast so faithful and so plain, I wot, Spoke by a royal Queen doth shame her not. [_Exit_ CLYTEMNESTRA.] LEADER. Let thine ear mark her message. ’Tis of fair Seeming, and craves a clear interpreter…. But, Herald, I would ask thee; tell me true Of Menelaüs. Shall he come with you, Our land’s belovèd crown, untouched of ill? HERALD. I know not how to speak false words of weal For friends to reap thereof a harvest true. LEADER. Canst speak of truth with comfort joined? Those two Once parted, ’tis a gulf not lightly crossed. HERALD. Your king is vanished from the Achaian host, He and his ship! Such comfort have I brought. LEADER. Sailed he alone from Troy? Or was he caught By storms in the midst of you, and swept away? HERALD. Thou hast hit the truth; good marksman, as men say! And long to suffer is but brief to tell. LEADER. How ran the sailors’ talk? Did there prevail One rumour, showing him alive or dead? HERALD. None knoweth, none hath tiding, save the head Of Helios, ward and watcher of the world. LEADER. Then tell us of the storm. How, when God hurled His anger, did it rise? How did it die? HERALD. It likes me not, a day of presage high With dolorous tongue to stain. Those twain, I vow, Stand best apart. When one with shuddering brow, From armies lost, back beareth to his home Word that the terror of her prayers is come; One wound in her great heart, and many a fate For many a home of men cast out to sate The two-fold scourge that worketh Ares’ lust, Spear crossed with spear, dust wed with bloody dust; Who walketh laden with such weight of wrong, Why, let him, if he will, uplift the song That is Hell’s triumph. But to come as I Am now come, laden with deliverance high, Home to a land of peace and laughing eyes, And mar all with that fury of the skies Which made our Greeks curse God—how should this be? Two enemies most ancient, Fire and Sea, A sudden friendship swore, and proved their plight By war on us poor sailors through that night Of misery, when the horror of the wave Towered over us, and winds from Strymon drave Hull against hull, till good ships, by the horn Of the mad whirlwind gored and overborne, One here, one there, ’mid rain and blinding spray, Like sheep by a devil herded, passed away. And when the blessèd Sun upraised his head, We saw the Aegean waste a-foam with dead, Dead men, dead ships, and spars disasterful. Howbeit for us, our one unwounded hull Out of that wrath was stolen or begged free By some good spirit—sure no man was he!— Who guided clear our helm; and on till now Hath Saviour Fortune throned her on the prow. No surge to mar our mooring, and no floor Of rock to tear us when we made for shore. Till, fled from that sea-hell, with the clear sun Above us and all trust in fortune gone, We drove like sheep about our brain the thoughts Of that lost army, broken and scourged with knouts Of evil. And, methinks, if there is breath In them, they talk of us as gone to death— How else?—and so say we of them! For thee, Since Menelaüs thy first care must be, If by some word of Zeus, who wills not yet To leave the old house for ever desolate, Some ray of sunlight on a far-off sea Lights him, yet green and living … we may see His ship some day in the harbour!—’Twas the word Of truth ye asked me for, and truth ye have heard!