Chapter XIV: Part II: Page (12)

Yea, a strange impulse wild Urges him on, resistless in its might, Atè's far-scheming child. It knows no healing, is not hid in night, That mischief lurid, dark; Like bronze that will not stand the test of wear, A tarnished blackness in its hue we mark; And like a boy who doth a bird pursue Swift-floating on the wing, He to his country hopeless woe doth bring; And no God hears their prayer, But sendeth down the unrighteous to despair, Whose hands are stained with sin. So was it Paris came His entrance to the Atreidæ's home to win, And brought its queen to shame, To shame that brand indelible hath set Upon the board where host and guest were met.

STROPHE II

And leaving to her countrymen to bear Wild whirl of ships of war and shield and spear, And bringing as her dower, Death's doom to Ilion's tower, She hath passed quickly through the palace gate, Daring what none should dare; And lo! the minstrel seers bewail the fate That home must henceforth share; “Woe for the kingly house and for its lord; Woe for the marriage-bed and paths which still A vanished love doth fill! There stands he, wronged, yet speaking not a word Of scorn from wrathful will, Seeing with utter woe that he is left, Of her fair form bereft; And in his yearning love For her who now is far beyond the sea, A phantom queen through all the house shall rove; And all the joy doth flee The sculptured forms of beauty once did give; And in the penury of eyes that live, All Aphroditè's grace Is lost in empty space.

ANTISTROPHE II

And spectral forms in visions of the night Come, bringing sorrow with their vain delight: For vain it is when one Thinks that great joy is near, And, passing through his hands, the dream is gone On gliding wings, that bear The vision far away on paths of sleep.” Such woes were felt at home Upon the sacred altar of the hearth, And worse than these remain for those who roam From Hellas' parent earth: In every house, in number measureless, Is seen a sore distress: Yea, sorrows pierce the heart: For those who from his home he saw depart Each knoweth all too well; And now, instead of warrior's living frame, There cometh to the home where each did dwell The scanty ashes, relics of the flame, The urns of bronze that keep The dust of those that sleep.

STROPHE III

For Ares, who from bodies of the slain Reapeth a golden gain, And holdeth, like a trafficker, his scales, E'en where the torrent rush of war prevails, From Ilion homeward sends But little dust, yet burden sore for friends, O'er which, smooth-lying in the brazen urn, They sadly weep and mourn, Now for this man as foremost in the strife, And now for that who in the battle fell, Slain for another's wife. And muttered curses some in secret tell, And jealous discontent Against the Atreidæ who as champions led The mighty armament; And some around the wall, the goodly dead, Have there in alien land their monument, And in the soil of foes Take in the sleep of death their last repose.

ANTISTROPHE III

And lo! the murmurs which our country fill Are as a solemn curse, And boding anxious fear expecteth still To hear of evil worse. Not blind the Gods, but giving fullest heed To those who cause a nation's wounds to bleed; And the dark-robed Erinnyes in due time By adverse chance and change Plunge him who prospers though defiled by crime In deepest gloom, and through its formless range No gleams of help appear. O'er-vaunted glory is a perilous thing; For on it Zeus, whose glance fills all with fear, His thunderbolts doth fling. That fortune fair I praise That rouseth not the Gods to jealousy. May I ne'er tread the devastator's ways, Nor as a prisoner see My life wear out in drear captivity!

EPODE

And now at bidding of the courier-flame, Herald of great good news, A murmur swift through all the city came; But whether it with truth its course pursues, Who knows? or whether God who dwells on high, With it hath sent a lie? Who is so childish, or of sense bereft, As first to feel the glow That message of the herald fire has left, And then to sink down low, Because the rumour changes in its sound? It is a woman's mood To accept a boon before the truth is found: Too quickly she believes in tidings good, And so the line exact That marks the truth of fact Is over-passed, and with quick doom of death A rumour spread by woman perisheth.

VERSES 665-782

STROPHE I

Who was it named her with such foresight clear? Could it be One of might, In strange prevision of her work of fear, Guiding the tongue aright? Who gave that war-wed, strife-upstirring one The name of Helen, ominous of ill? For 'twas through her that Hellas was undone, That woes from Hell men, ships, and cities fill. Out from the curtains, gorgeous in their fold, Wafted by breeze of Zephyr, earth's strong child, She her swift way doth hold; And hosts of mighty men, as hunters bold That bear the spear and shield, Wait on the track of those who steered their way Unseen where Simois flows by leafy field, Urged by a strife that came with power to slay.

ANTISTROPHE I

And so the wrath which doth its work fulfil To Ilion brought, well-named, A marriage marring all, avenging still For friendship wronged and shamed, And outrage foul on Zeus, of host and guest The guardian God, from those who then did raise The bridal hymn of marriage-feast unblest Which called the bridegroom's kin to shouts of praise. But now by woe oppressed Priam's ancient city waileth very sore, And calls on Paris unto dark doom wed, Suffering yet more and more For all the blood of heroes vainly shed, And bearing through the long protracted years A life of wailing grief and bitter tears.

STROPHE II

One was there who did rear A lion's whelp within his home to dwell, A monster waking fear, Weaned from the mother's milk it loved so well: Then in life's dawning light, Loved by the children, petted by the old, Oft in his arms clasped tight, As one an infant newly-born would hold, With eye that gleamed beneath the fondling hand, And fawning as at hunger's strong command.

ANTISTROPHE II

But soon of age full grown, It showed the inbred nature of its sire, And wrought unasked, alone, A feast to be that fostering nurture's hire; Gorged full with slaughtered sheep, The house was stained with blood as with a curse No slaves away could keep, A murderous mischief waxing worse and worse, Sent as from God a priest from Atè fell, And reared within the man's own house to dwell.

STROPHE III

So I would say to Ilion then there came Mood as of calm when every wind is still, The gentle pride and joy of noble fame, The eye's soft glance that all the soul doth thrill; Love's full-blown flower that brings The thorn that wounds and stings; And yet she turned aside, And of the marriage feast wrought bitter end, Coming to dwell where Priam's sons abide, Ill sojourner, ill friend, Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest, A true Erinnys, by all wives unblest.

ANTISTROPHE III

There lives a saying framed of ancient days,
And in men's minds imprinted firm and fast,
That great good fortune never childless stays,
But brings forth issue,—that on fame at last
There rushes on apace
Great woe for all the race;
But I, apart, alone,
Hold a far other and a worthier creed:
The impious act is by ill issue known,
Most like the parent deed;
While still for all who love the Truth and Right,
Good fortune prospers, fairer and more bright.

STROPHE IV

But wanton Outrage done in days of old
Another wanton Outrage still doth bear,
And mocks at human woes with scorn o'erbold,
Or soon or late as they their fortune share.
That other in its turn
Begets Satiety,
And lawless Might that doth all hindrance spurn,
And sacred right defy,
Two Atès fell within their dwelling-place,
Like to their parent race.

ANTISTROPHE IV

Yet Justice still shines bright in dwellings murk
And dim with smoke, and honours calm content;
But gold-bespangled homes, where guilt doth lurk,
She leaves with glance in horror backward bent,
And draws with reverent fear
To places holier far,
And little recks the praise the prosperous hear,
Whose glories tarnished are;
But still towards its destined goal she brings
The whole wide course of things.

Say then, son of Atreus, thou Who com'st as Troïa's conqueror now, What form of welcome right and meet, What homage thy approach to greet, Shall I now use in measure true, Nor more nor less than that is due? Many men there are, I wis, Who in seeming place their bliss, Caring less for that which is. If one suffers, then their wail Loudly doth the ear assail; Yet have they nor lot nor part In the grief that stirs the heart; So too the joyous men will greet With smileless faces counterfeit: But shepherd who his own sheep knows Will scan the lips that fawn and gloze, Ready still to praise and bless With weak and watery kindliness. Thou when thou the host did'st guide For Helen—truth I will not hide— In mine eyes had'st features grim, Such as unskilled art doth limn, Not guiding well the helm of thought, And giving souls with grief o'erwrought False courage from fresh victims brought, But with nought of surface zeal, Now full glad of heart I feel, And hail thy acts as deeds well done: Thou too in time shall know each one, And learn who wrongly, who aright In house or city dwells in might.

VERSES 947-1001

STROPHE I

Why thus continually Do ever-haunting phantoms hover nigh My hearth that bodeth ill? Why doth the prophet's strain unbidden still, Unbought, flow on and on? Why on my mind's dear throne Hath faith lost all her former power to fling That terror from me as an idle thing? Yet since the ropes were fastened in the sand That moored the ships to land, When the great naval host to Ilion went, Time hath passed on to feeble age and spent.

ANTISTROPHE I

And now as face to face,
Myself reporting to myself I trace
Their safe return; and yet
My mind, taught by itself, cannot forget
Erinnys' dolorous cry,
That lyreless melody,
And hath no strength of wonted confidence.
Not vain these pulses of the inward sense,
As my heart beateth in its wild unrest,
Within true-boding breast;
And hoping against hope, I yet will pray
My fears may all prove false and pass away.

STROPHE II

Of high, o'erflowing health
There is no limit found that satisfies;
For soon by force or stealth,
As foe 'gainst whom but one poor wall doth rise,
Disease upon it presses, and the lot
Of fair good fortune onward moves until
It strikes on unseen reef where help is not.
But should fear move their will
For safety of their freight,
With measured sling a part they sacrifice,
And so avert their fate,
Lest the whole house should sink no more to rise,
O'erwhelmed with misery;
Nor does the good ship perish utterly:
So too abundant gift,
From Zeus in double plenty, from the earth,
Doth the worn soul from anxious care uplift,
And turns the famished wail to bounding joy and mirth.

ANTISTROPHE II

But blood that once is shed
In purple stream of death upon the ground,
Who then, when life is fled,
A charm to call it back again hath found?
Else against him who raised the dead to life
Zeus had not sternly warred, as warning given
To all men; but if Fate were not at strife
With Fate that brings from Heaven
Help from the Gods, my heart,
Out-stripping speech, had given thought free vent.
But now in gloom apart
It sits and moans in sullen discontent,
And hath no hope that e'er
It shall an issue seasonably fair
From out the tangled skein
Of life's strange course unravel straight and clear,
While in the fever of continuing pain
My soul doth burden sore of troublous anguish bear.

THE LIBATION-POURERS

VERSES 20-75

STROPHE I

Lo, from the palace door We wend our way to pour Gifts on the dead; And in our bitter woe, Our hands with many a blow Smite breast and head. On each fair cheek the nail Has ploughed full many a trail, And all to tatters torn The garments we have worn; The foldings of the vest O'er maiden's swelling breast Are roughly rent; For now on us the chance That shuts out joy and dance Our fate hath sent.

ANTISTROPHE I

A spectral vision clear Thrills every hair with fear, In haunted sleep, Breathing of dire distress, From innermost recess Its watch doth keep, Breaking with cry of fright The still deep hush of night: All through the queenly bower Sharp cry was heard that hour, And they to whom 'twas given To read decrees of Heaven, In dream o'er-true, By solemn pledges bound, Declared that underground The dead were wrathful found 'Gainst those that slew.

STROPHE II

And so the godless queen In eager haste is seen,— Sends me with gifts like this, Full graceless grace, I wis, As if (O mother Earth, To whom we owe our birth!) To banish dread. And I would fain delay This prayer of mine to pray: What ransom can men pay For blood once shed? Oh, hearth and home of woe! Oh, utter overthrow! Foul mists brood o'er our halls: No ray of sunlight falls; Thick darkness from the tomb Of heroes makes the gloom Yet more intense.

ANTISTROPHE II

And awe that once we knew, Strong, mighty to subdue, Falling on every ear, Thrilling each soul with fear, Is gone far hence. There be that well may bow In craven terror now, For lo! Success enthroned As more than God is owned. But Vengeance will not fail Ere long to turn the scale. On some her strokes alight, While yet their day is bright; Some, as in twilight's gloom, O'erflow with gathering doom; Some endless night doth hold In realm of darkness old.

STROPHE III

And for the blood which Earth, To whom it owed its birth, Hath drunk, there still doth wait A stern avenging Fate; The stain of blood doth stay, And will not pass away, And nerves are thrilled with pain In soul that sets in train The plague that works amain Its evil great.

ANTISTROPHE III

All help from him hath fled Who with adulterous tread Denies another's bed. Though many streams should pour Their waters o'er and o'er, Those waters evermore Are poured in vain; They cannot cleanse the guilt Of blood that once is spilt, Man's hand to stain.

EPODE

But since to me by Heaven The exile's life is given, (Yea, far from home I know The bondslave's cup of woe,) I needs must yield assent To good or ill intent, Accepting their commands Who rule with sceptred hands,— Yea, I must hide my hate In this my evil fate, And under strong control Keep my rebellious soul; And now beneath my veil I weep my woes' full tale; For cares that vex and fret My cheeks with tears are wet.

VERSES 576-639

STROPHE I

Many dread forms of woe and fear the Earth Doth breed; and Ocean's deep Is full of foes men hate, of monstrous birth; And Air's high pathways keep Their flashing meteors; birds that wing their flight, And things on earth that creep; And one might tell the wrath of whirlwind's might, When tempests wildly sweep.

ANTISTROPHE I

But who can tell man's purpose overbold?
Or woman's, prompt to dare?
Or the strong loves that men in bondage hold,
And bring woe everywhere?
Or strange conjunctions of the hearth and home?
But still the palm they bear,
The loves unloved that women overcome,
And hold dominion there.

STROPHE II

And one whose thoughts are not o'erswift of wing, May learn and ponder well What purpose Thestios' child to act did bring, Purpose most dire and fell, Her burning thought who did her own child slay, Kindling the torch of death That with her child's life kept its equal way, Since coming from his mother's womb he cried, To that predestined day on which at last he died.

ANTISTROPHE II

And yet another must I in my song Devote to hate and scorn, The murderess Skylla, who to deeds of wrong By Minos' gifts was borne, And for her foes' sake slew a man she loved For Cretan chains gold-wrought; She with dog's heart the deathless lock removed From him, in deep sleep sunk; yet Hermes' power She too was taught at last at her appointed hour.

STROPHE III

But since I tell my tale of loathly crime, And of ill-omened marriage out of time, Wedlock our house abhors, The schemes and plots of women steeped in guile Against a warrior chief, a chief erewhile The dread of foes in wars, The foremost place I give to altar-hearth Where no wrath burns and woman knows the worth Of mood from daring free.

ANTISTROPHE III

Yet of all ills the Lemnian first may stand, The cry of loathing rings through all the land, And still each crime of dread A man will liken to the Lemnian ill; And now by woe that comes from God's stern will The race is gone and fled, Of all men scorned, for no man looks with love On deeds that to the high Gods hateful prove; Is not this clear to see?

STROPHE IV

And lo! the sword sharp-pointed pierces deep,
E'en to the heart, the sword which Vengeance wields;
The lawless deed will not neglected sleep,
When men tread down what fear of high heaven shields;

ANTISTROPHE IV

But still the block of Vengeance firm doth stand,
And Fate, as swordsmith, hammers blow on blow;
And then with thoughts that none can understand,
Erinnys comes far known, though working slow,
And to the old house brings the youthful heir,
That deeds of blood wrought out of olden time
May the due judgment bear
For each polluting crime.

VERSES 769-820

STROPHE I

Oh, hear me, hear my prayer, thou mighty Lord!
Sire of all Gods that on Olympos dwell,
Hear Thou, and grant my longing heart's desire,
That those who wise of heart would fain do well
May see each prayer for right
Fulfilled in holiest might;
That prayer, O Zeus, I pray.

STROPHE II

Do Thou protect him, yea, O Zeus, and bring
Before his foes on yonder secret way;
For if thou raise him high, then Thou, O king,
Shalt to thy heart's content
Receive a twofold, threefold recompence,
For that thine anger bent
Against each old offence.

ANTISTROPHE I

Look on the son of one whom Thou did'st love,
Like orphan colt fast bound to car of woes;
Set Thou a mark that may as limit prove;
Ah, might one watch his footsteps as he goes,
In measured course and true,
This his own country through!

STROPHE III

And ye who in our home
Stand in the shrine with plenteous wealth full stored,
Hear, O ye Gods, and come,
Yea, come with one accord,
Lead him on, wash away
With vengeance new the blood of crime of old;
Let not the old guilt stay
To breed fresh offspring where our home we hold.

MESODE

But grant him good success, O Thou who dost within the great cave dwell! With upward glance of joy our chief's house bless, And that he too, full well, Freely and brightly with the dear, loved eyes, May look from out the veil of cloudy skies.

ANTISTROPHE III

And then may Maia's son
Assist him, as is meet, in this his task!
Through Him success is won,
The boon that now we ask:
And many secret things will He make clear,
If that should be His will;
But should He choose the truth should not appear,
Before men's eyes He still
Brings darkness and the blackness of the night,
Nor is He clearer in the day's full light.

STROPHE IV

And then will we pour forth All that our house contains of costliest worth, Past evil to redeem, And through the city we will raise the strain Shrill-voiced of women's chant yet once again. All this as good I deem; This, this my gain increaseth more and more, And far from those I love is sorrow's bitter stour.

ANTISTROPHE II

But thou, take courage when the time is come, The time to act indeed, And when she calls thee “child,” do thou strike home, And let thy father's name for vengeance plead; Do thy dread taskwork to the uttermost.

ANTISTROPHE IV

Let Perseus' heart within thy bosom dwell,
For thou dost work for each dear kindred ghost,
And those on high, a bitter boon and fell,
Completing there within
The deed of blood and sin,
And utterly destroying him whose hand
That crime of murder planned.

EUMENIDES

VERSES 297-374

Come then, and let us dance in solemn strain; It is our will to chant our harsh refrain, And tell how this our band Works among men the tasks we take in hand. In righteous vengeance find we full delight; On him who putteth forth clean hands and pure No wrath from us doth light; Unhurt shall he through all his life endure; But whoso, as this man, hath evil wrought, And hides hands stained with blood, On him we come, with power prevailing fraught, True witnesses and good, For those whom he has slain, and bent to win Full forfeit-price for that his deed of sin.

STROPHE I

O Mother, Mother Night! Who did'st bear me a penalty and curse To those who see and those who see not light, Hear thou; for Leto's son, in mood perverse, Puts me to foulest shame, In that he robs me of my trembling prey, The victim whom we claim, That we his mother's blood may wash away; And over him as slain Sing we this dolorous, frenzied, maddening strain, The song that we, the Erinnyes, love so well, That binds the soul as with enchanter's spell, Without one note from out the sweet-voiced lyre, Withering the strength of men as with a blast of fire.

ANTISTROPHE I

For this our task hath Fate
Spun without fail to last for ever sure,
That we on man weighed down with deeds of hate
Should follow till the earth his life immure.
Nor when he dies can he
Boast of being truly free;
And over him as slain
Sing we this dolorous, frenzied, maddening strain,
The song that we, the Erinnyes, love so well,
That binds the soul as with enchanter's spell,
Without one note from out the sweet-voiced lyre,
Withering the strength of men as with a blast of fire.

STROPHE II

Yea, at our birth this lot to us was given, And from the immortal Ones who dwell in Heaven We still must hold aloof; None sits with us at banquets of delight, Or shares a common roof, Nor part nor lot have I in garments white; My choice was made a race to overthrow, When murder, home-reared, lays a loved one low; Strong though he be, upon his track we tread, And drain his blood till all his strength is fled.

ANTISTROPHE II

Yea, 'tis our work to set another free From tasks like this, and by my service due To give the Gods their perfect liberty, Relieved from task of meting judgment true; For this our tribe from out his fellowship Zeus hath cast out as worthy of all hate, And from our limbs the purple blood-drops drip; So with a mighty leap and grievous weight My foot I bring upon my quivering prey, With power to make the swift and strong give way, An evil and intolerable fate.

STROPHE III

And all the glory and the pride of men, Though high exalted in the light of day, Wither and fade away, Of little honour then, When in the darkness of the grave they stay, By our attack brought low, The loathèd dance through which in raiment black we go:

ANTISTROPHE III

And through the ill that leaves him dazed and blind, He still is all unconscious that he falls, So thick a cloud enthrals The vision of his mind: And Rumour with a voice of wailing calls, And tells of gathering gloom That doth the ancient halls in darkness thick entomb.

STROPHE IV

So it abideth still;
Ready and prompt are we to work our will,
The dreaded Ones who bring
The dire remembrance of each deed of ill,
Whom mortals may not soothe with offering,
Working a task with little honour fraught,
Yea, all dishonoured, task the Gods detest,
In sunless midnight wrought,
By which alike are pressed
Those who yet live, and those who lie in gloom unblest.

ANTISTROPHE IV

What mortal man then will not crouch in fear, As he my work shall hear, The task to me by destiny from Heaven As from the high Gods given? Yea, a time-honoured lot is mine I trow, No shame in it I see, Though deep beneath the earth my station be, In gloom that never feels the sunlight's quickening glow.

VERSES 468-537

STROPHE I

Now is there utter fall and overthrow, Which new-made laws begin; If he who struck the matricidal blow, His right—not so, his utter wrong shall win, This baseness will the minds of all men lead To wanton, reckless thought, And now for parents waits there woe, and deed Of parricidal guilt by children wrought.

ANTISTROPHE I

For then no more shall wrath from this our band,
The Mænad troop that watch the deeds of men,
Come for these crimes; but lo! on either hand
I will let slip all evil fate, and then,
Telling his neighbours' grief,
Shall this man seek from that, and seek in vain,
Remission and relief,
Nor is there any certain cure for pain.
And lo! the wretched man all fruitlessly
For grace and help shall cry.

STROPHE II

Henceforth let no man in his anguish call, When he sore-smitten by ill-chance shall fall, Uttering with groan and moan, “O mighty Justice, O Erinnyes' throne!” So may a father or a mother wail, Struck by new woe, and tell their sorrow's tale; For low on earth doth lie The home where Justice once her dwelling had on high.

ANTISTROPHE II

Yea, there are times when reverent Awe should stay As guardian of the soul; It profits much to learn through suffering The bliss of self-control. Who that within the heart's full daylight bears No touch of holy awe, Be it or man or State that casts out fear, Will still own reverence for the might of law?

STROPHE III

Nor life that will no sovran rule obey, Nor one down-crushed beneath a despot's sway, Shalt thou approve; God still gives power and strength for victory To all that in the golden mean doth lie. All else, as they in diverse order move, He scans with watchful eye. With this I speak a word in harmony, That of irreverence still Outrage is offspring ill, While from the soul's true health Comes the much-loved, much-prayed-for joy and wealth.

ANTISTROPHE III

Yes, this I bid thee know; Bow thou before the altar of the Right, And let no wandering glance That looks at gain askance Lead thee with godless foot to scorn or slight. Know well the appointed penalty shall come; The doom remaineth sure and will at last strike home. Wherefore let each man pay the reverence due To those who call him son; By each to thronging guests let honour true In loyal faith be done.

STROPHE IV

But one who with no pressure of constraint Of his free will draws back from evil taint, He shall not be unblest, Nor ever sink by utter woe oppressed. But this I still aver, That he whose daring leads him to transgress, The chaos wild of evil deeds to stir, In sharp and sore distress, Against his will will slacken sail ere long, When, as his timbers crash before the blast, He feels the tempest strong.

ANTISTROPHE IV

Then in the midst of peril he at last Shall call on those who then will hear him not. Yea, God still laughs to scorn The man by evil tide of passions borne, Swayed by thoughts wild and hot, When he beholdeth one whose boast was high He ne'er should know it, sunk in misery, And all unable round the point to steer; And so his former pride of prosperous days He wrecks upon the reefs of Vengeance drear, And dies with none to weep him or to praise.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Added missing target for footnote on p. 17. 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's Æschylos Tragedies and Fragments, by Æschylos