The Agamemnon of Aeschylus Part 11

Why should I grieve? Why pity these men's doom?

I who have seen the City of Ilion Pa.s.s as she pa.s.sed; and they who cast her down Have thus their end, as G.o.d gives judgement sure....

I go to drink my cup. I will endure To die. O Gates, Death-Gates, all hail to you!

Only, pray G.o.d the blow be stricken true!

Pray G.o.d, unagonized, with blood that flows Quick unto friendly death, these eyes may close!

LEADER.

O full of sorrows, full of wisdom great, Woman, thy speech is a long anguish; yet, Knowing thy doom, why walkst thou with clear eyes, Like some G.o.d-blinded beast, to sacrifice?

Ca.s.sANDRA.

There is no escape, friends; only vain delay.

LEADER.

Is not the later still the sweeter day?

Ca.s.sANDRA.

The day is come. Small profit now to fly.

LEADER.

Through all thy griefs, Woman, thy heart is high.

Ca.s.sANDRA.

Alas! None that is happy hears that praise.

LEADER.

Are not the brave dead blest in after days?

Ca.s.sANDRA.

O Father! O my brethren brave, I come!

[_She moves towards the House, but recoils shuddering._

LEADER.

What frights thee? What is that thou startest from?

Ca.s.sANDRA.

Ah, faugh! Faugh!

LEADER.

What turns thee in that blind Horror? Unless some loathing of the mind ...

Ca.s.sANDRA.

Death drifting from the doors, and blood like rain!

LEADER.

'Tis but the dumb beasts at the altar slain.

Ca.s.sANDRA.

And vapours from a charnel-house ... See there!

LEADER.

'Tis Tyrian incense clouding in the air.

Ca.s.sANDRA (_recovering herself again_).

So be it!--I will go, in yonder room To weep mine own and Agamemnon's doom.

May death be all! Strangers, I am no bird That pipeth trembling at a thicket stirred By the empty wind. Bear witness on that day When woman for this woman's life shall pay, And man for man ill-mated low shall lie: I ask this boon, as being about to die.

LEADER.

Alas, I pity thee thy mystic fate!

Ca.s.sANDRA.

One word, one dirge-song would I utter yet O'er mine own corpse. To this last s.h.i.+ning Sun I pray that, when the Avenger's work is done, His enemies may remember this thing too, This little thing, the woman slave they slew!

O world of men, farewell! A painted show Is all thy glory; and when life is low The touch of a wet sponge out-blotteth all.

Oh, sadder this than any proud man's fall! [_She goes into the House._

CHORUS.

Great Fortune is an hungry thing, And filleth no heart anywhere, Though men with fingers menacing Point at the great house, none will dare, When Fortune knocks, to bar the door Proclaiming: "Come thou here no more!"

Lo, to this man the G.o.ds have given Great Ilion in the dust to tread And home return, emblazed of heaven; If it is writ, he too shall go Through blood for blood spilt long ago; If he too, dying for the dead, Should crown the deaths of alien years, What mortal afar off, who hears, Shall boast him Fortune's Child, and led Above the eternal tide of tears? [_A sudden Cry from within._

VOICE.

Ho! Treason in the house! I am wounded: slain.

LEADER.

Hus.h.!.+ In the castle! 'Twas a cry Of some man wounded mortally.

VOICE.

Ah G.o.d, another! I am stricken again.