Æschylos Tragedies and Fragments

THE LIBATION-POURERS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Orestes

Clytæmnestra

Pylades

Electra

Ægisthos

Nurse

Servant

Chorus of Captive Women

ARGUMENT. – It came to pass, after Agamemnon had been slain, that Clytæmnestra and Ægisthos ruled in Argos, and all things seemed to go well with them. Orestes, who was heir to Agamemnon, they had sent away to the care of Strophios of Phokis, and there he abode. Electra, his sister, mourned in secret over her father's death, and prayed for vengeance, but no avenger came. And when Orestes grew up to man's estate, he went to ask counsel of the God at Delphi, and the Gods straitly charged him to take vengeance on his father's murderers; and so he started on his journey with his trusty friend Pylades, and arrived at Argos. And it chanced that a little while before he came, the Gods sent Clytæmnestra a fearful dream, that troubled her soul greatly; and in her terror she bade Electra go with her handmaids to pour libations on the tomb of Agamemnon, that so she might appease his soul, and propitiate the Powers that rule over the dark world of the dead.

THE LIBATION-POURERSScene. – Argos, in front of the palace of the Atreidæ. The tomb ofAgamemnon (a raised mound of earth) is seen in the background Enter Orestes and Pylades from the left; Orestes advances to the mound, and, as he speaks, lays on it a lock of his hairOrest. O Hermes of the darkness 'neath the earth,Who hast the charge of all thy Father's401 sway,To me who pray deliverer, helper be;For I to this land come, from exile come,And on the raised mound of this monumentI bid my father hear and list. One tress,Thank-offering for the gifts that fed my youth,To Inachos I consecrate, and thisThe second as the token of my grief;402For mine it was not, father, being by,Over thy death to groan, nor yet to stretchMy hand forth for the burial of thy corpse.[As he speaks, Electra, followed by a train ofcaptive women in black garments, bearing libations,wailing and tearing their clothes, comesforth from the palaceWhat see I now? What company of womenIs this that comes in mourning garb attired?What chance shall I conjecture as its cause?Does a new sorrow fall upon this house?Or am I right in guessing that they bringLibations to my father, soothing giftsTo those beneath? It cannot but be so.I think Electra, mine own sister, comes,By wailing grief conspicuous. Thou, O Zeus,Grant me full vengeance for my father's death,And of thine own good will my helper be!Come, Pylades, and let us stand aside,That I may clearly learn what means this trainOf women offering prayers.Strophe IChor. Sent from the house I come,With quick, sharp beatings of the hands in grief,To pour libations here;And see, my cheeks with bloody marks are tracked,403The new-cut furrows which my nails have made,And evermore my heart is fed with groans;And folds of mantles tiedAcross the breast are rentTo shreds and rags in grief,Marring the grace of linen vestments fair,Since we by woes that shut out smiles are smitten.Antistrophe IFull clear a spectre cameThat made each single hair to stand on end,Dream-prophet of this house,That e'en in sleep breathes out avenging wrath;And from the secret chamber cried in fearA cry that broke the silence of the night,There, where the women dwell,Falling with heaviest weight;And those who judge such dreamsTold, calling God to witness, that the soulsBelow were wroth and vexed with those that slew them.Strophe IIOn such a graceless deed of grace, as charmTo ward off ill, (O Earth! O mother kind!)A godless woman nowSends me with eager heart;And yet I dread to utter that same prayer;What ransom has been foundFor blood on earth once poured?Oh! hearth all miserable!Oh! utter overthrow of house and home!Yea, mists of darkness, sunless, loathed of men,Cover both home and houseWith its lords' bloody deaths.Antistrophe IIYea, all the majesty that awed of old,Unchecked, unconquered, irresistible,Thrilling the people's heartAs well as ears, is gone;There are, may be, that fear;404 but now SuccessIs man's sole God and more;Yet stroke of Vengeance swiftSmites some in life's clear day,For some who tarry long their sorrows waitIn twilight dim, on darkness' borderland,And some an endless nightOf nothingness holds fast.Strophe IIIBecause of blood that mother earth has drunk,The guilt of slaughter that will vengeance workIs fixed indelibly;And Atè, working grief,Permits awhile the guilty one to wait,That so he may be full and overflowWith all-devouring ill.Antistrophe IIIFor him whose foul touch stains the marriage bed405No remedy avails; and water-streams,Though all as from one sourceShould pour to cleanse the guiltOf murder that the sin-stained hand defiles,Would yet flow all in vainThat guilt to purify.EpodeBut now to me, since the high Gods have sentA doom of bondage round my city's walls,(For from my father's homeThey have brought on me fate of slavery,)Deeds right and wrong alikeHave been as things 'twas meet I should accept,Since this slave-life began,Where deeds are done by violence and force, —And I must needs suppressThe bitter loathing of my inmost heart,And now beneath my cloak I weep and wailFor all the frustrate fortunes of my lords,406Chilled through with secret grief.Elect. Ye handmaids, ye who deftly tend this house,Since ye are here companions in my taskAs suppliants, give me your advice in this,What shall I say as these funereal giftsI pour? How shall I speak acceptably?How to my father pray? What? Shall I say“I bring from loving wife to husband lovedGifts” – from my mother? No, I am not boldEnough for that, nor know I what to speak,Pouring this chrism on my father's tomb,407Or shall I say this prayer, as men are wont,“Good recompense make thou to those who bringThese garlands,” yea, a gift full well deservedBy deeds of ill? Or dumb, with ignominyLike that with which he perished, shall I pourLibations on the earth, and like a manThat flings away the lustral filth, shall IThrow down the urn and walk with eyes not turned?408Be sharers in my counsels, O my friends;A common hate we cherish in the house;Hide nothing in your heart through fear of man.Fate's doom firm-fixed awaits alike the free,And those in bondage to another's hand.Speak, if thou can'st a better counsel give.Chor. [laying their hands on Agamemnon's tomb.] Thy father's tomb as altar honouring,I, as thou bidd'st, will speak my heart-thoughts out!Elect. Speak, then, as thou my father's tomb dost honour,Chor. Say, as thou pour'st, good words for those that love,Elect. Which of my friends shall I address as such!Chor. First then thyself, and whoso hates Ægisthos.Elect. Shall I for thee, as for myself, pray thus?Chor. Now that thou'rt learning, judge of that thyself.Elect. Whom shall I add then to this company?Chor. Far though Orestes be, forget him not.Elect. Right well is this: thou teachest admirably.Chor. Then, for the blood-stained ones remembering say…Elect. What then? Explain, and teach my ignorance.409Chor. That there may come to them some God or man…Elect. Shall I “as judge” or as “avenger” say?Chor. Say it out plain! “to give them death for death.”…Elect. May prayers like these consist with piety?Chor. Why not, – a foe with evils to requite?Elect. [moving to the tomb, and pouring libations as she speaks.] *O mightiest herald of the Gods on highAnd those below, O Hermes of the dark,Call thou the Powers beneath, and bid them hearThe prayers that look towards my father's house;And Earth herself, who all things bringeth forth,And rears them and again receives their fruit.And I to human souls libations pouring,Say, calling on my father, “Pity me;How shall we bring our dear Orestes home?”For now as sold to ill by her who bore us,We poor ones wander. She as husband gainedÆgisthos, who was partner in thy death;And I am as a slave, and from his wealthOrestes now is banished, and they waxFull haughty in the wealth thy toil had gained.And that Orestes hither with good luckMay come, I pray. Hear thou that prayer, my father!And to myself grant thou that I may beThan that my mother wiser far of heart,Holier in act. For us this prayer I pour;And for our foes, my father, this I pray,That Justice may as thine avenger come,And that thy murderers perish. Thus I placeMidway in prayer for good that now I speak,My prayer 'gainst them for evil. Be thou thenThe escort410 of these good things that I ask,With help of Gods, and Earth, and conquering Justice.With prayers like these my votive gifts I pour;And as for you [turning to the Chorus] 'tis meet with cries to crownThe pæan ye utter, wailing for the dead.StropheChor. *Pour ye the pattering tear,Falling for fallen lord,Here by the tomb that shuts out good and ill, —Here, where the full libations have been pouredThat turn aside the curse men deprecate,Hear me, O Thou my Dread,Hear thou, O Sire, the words my dark mind speaks!AntistropheOh, woe is me, woe, woe!Woe, woe, and woe is me!What warrior strong of spearShall come the house to free,Or Ares with his Skythian bow411 in hand,Shaking its pliant strength in deeds of war,Or guiding in encounter closer yetThe weapons made with hilts?[During the choral ode Electra, after going to themound, and pouring the libations on it, returnsholding in her hands the lock of hair whichOrestes had left thereElect. The gifts the earth hath drunk, my father hath them:Now this new wonder come and share with me.Chor. Speak on, my heart goes pit-a-pat with fear.Elect. There on the tomb I see this lock cut off.Chor. What man or maid low-girdled can it claim?Elect. Full easy this for any one to guess.Chor. Old as I am, may I from younger learn?Elect. None but myself could cut off lock like this.Chor. Yea, foes are they that should with grief-locks mourn.Elect. Yes, surely, 'tis indeed the self-same hair…Chor. But as what tresses? This I seek to know.Elect. And of a truth 'tis very like to ours…Chor. Did then Orestes send this secret gift?412Elect. It is most like those flowing locks of his.Chor. Yet how had he adventured to come hither?Elect. He to his father sent the lock as gift.Chor. Not less regretful than before, thy words,If on this soil his foot shall never tread.Elect. Yea, on me too there rushed heart-surge of gallAnd I was smitten as with dart that pierced;And from mine eyes there fell the thirsty dropsThat pour unchecked, of this full bitter flood,As I this lock beheld. How can I thinkThat any other townsman owns this hair?Nay, she who slew … she did not cut it off,My mother … who towards her children showsA godless mood that little suits the name;And yet that I should this assert outright,The precious gift is his whom most of menI love, Orestes… Nay, hope flatters me.Alas! alas!Would, herald-like, it had a kindly voice!So should I not turn to and fro in doubt;But either it had told me with all clearnessTo loathe this tress, if cut from hated head;Or, being of kin, had sought to share my grief,To deck the tomb and do my father honour.Chor. Well, on the Gods we call, on those who knowIn what storms we, like sailors, now are tossed:But if deliverance may indeed be ours,From a small seed a mighty trunk may grow.413Elect. Here too are foot-prints as a second proof,Just like … yea, close resembling those of mine.For here are outlines of two separate feet,His own and those of fellow-traveller,And all the heels and impress of the feet,When measured, fit well with my footsteps here…Pangs come on me, and sore bewilderment.[As she ceases speaking Orestes comes forwardfrom his concealmentOrest. Pray, uttering to the Gods no fruitless prayer,For good success in what is yet to come.Elect. What profits now to me the Gods' good will?Orest. Thou see'st those here whom most thou did'st desire.Elect. Whom called I on, that thou hast knowledge of?Orest. Right well I know how thou dost prize Orestes.Elect. In what then find I now my prayers fulfilled?Orest. Behold me! Seek no dearer friend than I!Elect. Nay, stranger, dost thou weave a snare for me?Orest. Then do I plot my schemes against myself.Elect. Thou seekest to make merry with my grief.Orest. With mine then also, if at all with thine.Elect. Art thou indeed Orestes that I speak to?Orest. Though thou see'st him, thou'rt slow to learn 'tis I;Yet when thou saw'st this lock of mourner's hair,And did'st the foot-prints track my feet had made,Agreeing with thine own, as brother's true,Then did'st thou deem in hope thou looked'st on me.Fit then this lock where it was cut, and see;See too this woven robe, thine own hands' work,The shuttle's stroke, and forms of beasts414 of chase.[Electra starts, as if about to cry aloud for joyRestrain thyself, nor lose thy head for joy:Our nearest kin, I know, are foes to us.Elect. [embracing Orestes] Thou whom thy father's house most loves, most prays for,Our one sole hope, bewept with many a tear,Of issue that shall work deliverance!Thine own might trusting, thou thy father's houseShall soon win back. O pleasant fourfold name!I needs must speak to thee as father dear;415The love I owe my mother turns to thee,(She with full right to me is hateful now,)My sister's too, who ruthlessly was slain;And thou wast ever faithful brother found,And one whom I revered. May Might and Right,And sovran Zeus as third, my helpers be!Orest. Zeus! Zeus! be Thou a witness of our troubles,See the lorn brood that calls an eagle sire,Eagle that perished in the coils and foldsOf a fell viper. Now on them bereavedPresses gaunt famine. Not as yet full-grownAre they to bring their father's booty home.Thus it is thine to see in me and her,(I mean Electra) children fatherless,Both suffering the same exile from our home.Elect. And should'st Thou havoc make of brood of sireWho at thine altar greatly honoured Thee,Whence wilt Thou get a festive offeringFrom hand as free? Nor, should'st Thou bring to noughtThe eagle's nestlings, would'st thou have at handA messenger to bear thy will to manIn signs persuasive; nor when withered upThis royal stock shall be, will it againWait on thine altars at high festivals:Oh, bring it back, and then Thou too wilt raiseFrom low estate a lofty house, which nowSeems to have fallen, fallen utterly.Chor. Ah, children! saviours of your father's house,Hush, hush, lest some one hear you, children dear,And for mere talking's sake report all thisTo those that rule. Ah, would I might behold themLie dead 'midst oozing fir-pyre blazing high!416Orest. Nay, nay, I tell you, Loxias' oracle,In strength excelling, will not fail us now,That bade me on this enterprise to start,And with clear voice spake often, warning meOf chilling pain-throes at the fevered heart,Unless my father's murderers I should chase,Bidding me kill them in the self-same fashion,Stirred by the wrongs that pauperise my life,And said that I with many a mischief illShould pay for that fault with mine own dear life.For making known to men the charms earth-bornThat soothe the wrathful powers,417 he spake for usOf ills as follows, leprous sores that creepAll o'er the flesh, and as with cruel jawsEat out its ancient nature, and white hairs418On that foul ill to supervene: and stillHe spake of other onsets of the Erinnyes,As brought to issue from a father's blood;For the dark weapon of the Gods belowWinged by our kindred that lie low in death,And beg for vengeance, yea, and madness too,And vague, dim fears at night disturb and haunt me,Seeing full clearly, though I move my brow419In the thick darkness … and that then my frame,Thus tortured, should be driven from the cityWith brass-knobbed scourge: and that for such as IIt was not given to share the wine-cup's taste,Nor votive stream in pure libation poured;And that my father's wrath invisibleWould drive me from all altars, and that noneShould take me in, or lodge with me; at last,That, loathed of all and friendless, I should die,A wretched mummy, all my strength consumed.Must I not trust such oracles as these?Yea, though I trust not, must the deed be done;For many motives now in one converge, —The God's command, great sorrow for my father;My lack of fortune, this, too, urges meNever to leave our noble citizens,With noblest courage Troïa's conquerors,To be the subjects to two women thus;Yea, his soul is as woman's:420 an' it be not,He soon shall know the issue.Chor. Grant ye from Zeus, O mighty Destinies!That so our work may endAs Justice wills, who takes our side at last;Now for the tongue of bitter hate let tongueOf bitter hate be given. Loud and longThe voice of Vengeance claiming now her debt;And for the murderous blowLet him who slew with murderous blow repay.“That the wrong-doer bear the wrong he did,”Thrice-ancient saying of a far-off time,421This speaketh as we speak.Strophe IOrest. O father, sire ill-starred,What deed or word could IWaft from afar to thee,Where thy couch holds thee now,To be a light with dark commensurate?Alike, in either case,The wail that tells their praise is welcome giftTo those Atreidæ, guardians of our house.Strophe IIChor. My child, my child, the mighty jaws of fire422Bind not the mood and spirit of the dead!But e'en when that is past he shows his wrath.When he that dies is wailed,The murderer stands revealed:The righteous cry for parents that begat,To fullest utterance roused,Searches the whole truth out.Antistrophe IElect. Hear then, O father, nowOur tearful griefs in turn;From us thy children twainThe funeral wail ascends;And we, as suppliants and as exiles too,Find shelter at thy tomb.What of all this is good, what void of ills?Is not this now a woe invincible?Chor. Yet, even yet, from evils such as these,God, if He will, may bring more pleasant strains:And for the dirge we utter by the tomb,A pæan in the royal house may raiseWelcome to new-found friend.Strophe IIIOrest. Had'st thou beneath the wallsOf Ilion, O my sire,Been slain by Lykian foe,423Pierced through and through with spear,Leaving high fame at home,And laying strong and sureThy children's paths in life,Then had'st thou had as thineFar off across the seaA mound of earth heaped high,To all thy kith and kin endurable.Antistrophe IIChor. Yea, and as friend with friendsThat nobly died, he thenHad dwelt in high estateA sovereign ruler, heldOf all in reverence,High in their train who ruleSupreme in that dark world;For he, too, while he lived,As monarch ruled o'er thoseWhose hands the sceptre heldThat mortal men obey.424Antistrophe IIIElect. Not even 'neath the wallsOf Troïa, O my sire,With those the spear hath slain,Would I have had thee lieBy fair Scamandros' stream:No, this my prayer shall beThat those who slew thee fall,By their own kin struck down,That one might hear far off,Untried by woes like this,The fate that brings inevitable death.Chor. Of blessings more than golden, O my child,Greater than greatest fortune, or the blissOf those beyond the North425 thou speakest now;For this is in thy grasp;But hold; e'en now this thud of double scourge426Finds its way on to him;Already these find helpers 'neath the earth,But of those rulers whom we loathe and hateUnholy are the hands:And children gain the day.Strophe IVElect. Ah! this, like arrow, pierces through the ear!O Zeus! O Zeus! who sendest from belowA woe of tardy doomUpon the bold and subtle hands of men…Nay, though they parents be,Yet all shall be fulfilled.Strophe VChor. May it be mine to chant o'er funeral pyreCry well accordant with the pine-fed blaze,427When first the man is slain,And his wife perisheth!Why should I hide what flutters round my heart?On my heart's prow a blast blows mightily,Keen wrath and loathing fierce.Antistrophe IVOrest. And when shall Zeus, the orphan's guardian true,Lay to his hand and smite the guilty heads?So may our land learn faith!Vengeance I claim from those who did the wrong.Hear me, O Earth, and ye,Powers held in awe below!Chor. Yea, the law saith that gory drops once shedUpon the ground for yet more blood should crave;For lo! fell slaughter on Erinnys calls,To come from those that perished long ago,And on one sorrow other sorrow bring.Strophe VIElect. *Ah, ah, O Earth, and Lords of those below!Behold, ye mighty Curses of the slain,Behold the remnant of the Atreidæ's houseBrought to extremest strait,Bereaved of house and home!Whither, O Zeus, can any turn for help?Antistrophe VChor. Ah, my fond heart is quivering in dismay,Hearing this loud lament most lamentable:Now have I little cheer,And blackened is my heart,Hearing that speech; but then again when hopeOn strength uplifts me, far it drives my grief,Propitious seen at last.Antistrophe VIOrest. What could we speak more fitly than the woesWe suffer, yea, and from a parent's hands?Well, she may fawn; our mood remains unsoothed;For like a wolf untamed,We from our mother takeA wrathful soul that to no fawning yields.Strophe VIIChor. *I strike an Arian stroke, and in the strainOf Kissian mourner skilled,428Ye might have seen the stretching forth of hands,With rendings of the hair, and random blows,In quick succession given,Dealt from above with arm at fullest length,And with the beating still my head is stunned,Battered and full of woe.Elect. O mother, hostile found, and daring all!With burial as of foeThou had'st the heart a ruler to inter,His citizens not there,A spouse unwept, with no lamentings loud.Strophe VIIIOrest. Ah! thou hast told the whole full tale of shame;Shall she not pay then for that outrage direUnto my father done,So far as Gods prevail,So far as my hands work?May it be mine to smite her and then die!Antistrophe VIIChor. Yea, he was maimed!429 (that thou the tale may'st know)And as she slaughtered, so she buried him,Seeking to work a doomFor thy young life all unendurable.Now thou dost hear the woesThy father suffered, stained with foulest shame.Antistrophe VIIIElect. Thou tellest of my father's death, but IStood afar off, contemned,Counted as nought, and like a cursèd houndShut up within, I poured the tide of tears(More ready they than smiles)Uttering in secret wail of weeping full.Hear thou these things, and write them in my mind.Chor. Let the tale pierce thine ears,While thy soul onward moves with tranquil step:So much, thou know'st, stands thus;Seek thou with all desire to know the rest;'Tis meet to enter nowWithin the lists with mind inflexible.Strophe IXOrest. I bid thee, O my father, help thy friends.Elect. Bitterly weeping, these my tears I add.Chor. With full accord so cries our company.Come then to light, and hear;Be with us 'gainst our foes.Antistrophe IXOrest. My Might their Might, my Right theirRight must meet.Elect. *Ye Gods, give righteous issue in our cause.Chor. Fear creeps upon me as I hear your prayers.Long tarries destiny,But comes to those who pray.Strophe XSemi-Chor. A. Oh, woe that haunts the race,And harsh, shrill stroke of Atè's bloody scourge!Woes sad and hard to bear,Calling for wailing loud,Ah, woe is me, a grief immedicable.Antistrophe XSemi-Chor. B. Yea, but as cure for this,And healing salve,'tis yours with your own hands,With no help from without,To press your suit of blood;So runs our hymn to those great Gods below.Chor. Yea, hearing now, ye blest Ones 'neath the earth,This prayer, send ye your children timely helpThat worketh victory.Orest. O sire, who in no kingly fashion died'st,Hear thou my prayer; grant victory o'er this house.Elect. I, father, ask this prayer, that I may workÆgisthos' death, and then acquittal gain.Orest. Yea, thus the banquets that men give the deadWould for thee too be held, but otherwiseDishonoured wilt thou lie 'mid those that feast,430Robbed of thy country's rich burnt-offerings.Elect. I too from out my father's house will bringLibations from mine own inheritance,As marriage offerings. Chief and first of all,Will I do honour to this sepulchre.Orest. Set free my sire, O Earth, to watch the battle.Elect. O Persephassa, goodly victory grant!Orest. Remember, sire, the bath in which they slew thee!Elect. *Remember thou the net they handselled so!Orest. In fetters not of brass wast thou snared, father.Elect. Yea, basely with that mantle they devised.Orest. Art thou not roused by these reproaches, father?Elect. Dost thou not lift thine head for those thou lov'st?Orest. Or send thou Vengeance to assist thy friends;Or let them get like grasp of those thy foes,If thou, o'ercome, dost wish to conquer them.Elect. And hear thou this last prayer of mine, my father,Seeing us thy nestlings sitting at thy tomb,Have mercy on thy boy and on thy girl;Nor blot thou out the seed of Pelopids:So thou, though thou hast died, art yet not dead;For children are the voices that preserveMan's memory when he dies: so bear the netThe corks that float the flax-mesh from the deep.Hear thou: This is our wailing cry for thee,And thou, our prayer regarding, sav'st thyself.Chor. Unblamed have ye your utterance lengthened out,Amends for that his tomb's unwept-for lot.But as to what remains, since thou'rt resolvedTo act, act now; make trial of thy Fate.Orest. So shall it be. Yet 'tis not out of courseTo ask why she libations sent, why thusToo late she cares for ill she cannot cure?Yea, to a dead man heeding not 'twas sent,A sorry offering. Why, I fail to guess:The gifts are far too little for the fault;For should a man pour all he has to payFor one small drop of blood, the toil were vain:So runs the saying. But if thou dost know,Tell this to me as wishing much to learn.Chor. I know, my child, for I was by. Stirred onBy dreams and wandering terrors of the night,That godless woman these libations sent.Orest. And have ye learnt the dream, to tell it right?Chor. As she doth say, she thought she bare a snake.Orest. How ends the tale, and what its outcome then?Chor. She nursed it, like a child, in swaddling clothes.Orest. What food did that young monster crave for then?Chor. She in her dream her bosom gave to it.Orest. How 'scaped her breast by that dread beast unhurt?Chor. Nay, with the milk it sucked out clots of blood.Orest. Ah, not in vain comes this dream from her lord.Chor. She, roused from sleep, cries out all terrified,And many torches that were quenched in gloomBlazed for our mistress' sake within the house.Then these libations for the dead she sends,Hoping they'll prove good medicine of ills.Orest. Now to Earth here and my sire's tomb I prayThey leave not this strange vision unfulfilled.So I expound it that it all coheres;For if, the self-same spot that I left leaving,The snake was then wrapt in my swaddling clothes,And sucked the very breast that nourished me,And mixed the sweet milk with a clot of blood,And she in terror wailed the strange event,So must she, as that monster dread she nourished,Die cruel death: and I, thus serpentised,Am here to slay her, as this dream portends;I take thee as my dream-interpreter.Chor. So be it; but in all else guide thy friends;Bid some do this, some that, some nought at all.Orest. Simple my orders, that she [pointing to Electra] go within;And you, I charge you, hide these plans of mine,That they who slew a noble soul by guile,By guile may die and in the self-same snareBe caught, as Loxias gave his oracle,The king Apollo, seer that never lied: 550For like a stranger in full harness cladWill I draw near with this man, Pylades,To the great gates, a stranger I, and he,Ally in arms. And then we both will speakParnassian speech, and imitate the toneOf Phokian tongue. And should no porter thereGive us good welcome, on the ground that nowThe house with ills is haunted, there we'll stay,So that a man who passeth by the houseWill guess, and thus will speak, “Why drives ÆgisthosThe suppliant from his gate, if he's at homeAnd knows it?” But if I should pass the threshold 560Of the great gate, and find him seated thereUpon my father's throne, or if he comesAnd meets me, face to face, and lifts his eyes,And drops them, then be sure, before he says,“Whence is this stranger?” – I will lay him dead,With my swift-footed brazen weapon pierced;And then Erinnys, stinted not in slaughter,Shall drink her third draught of unmingled blood.431Thou, then, [to Electra] watch well what passes in the house, 570So that these things may dovetail close and well:And you [to the Chorus] I bid to keep a tongue discreet,Silent, if need be, or the right word speaking,And Him432 [pointing to the statue of Apollo] I call to look upon me here,Since he has set me on this strife of swords.[Exeunt Orestes, Pylades, and ElectraStrophe IChor. Many dread forms of evils terribleEarth bears, and Ocean's baysWith monsters wild and fierceO'erflow, and through mid-air the meteor lightsSweep by; and wingèd birdsAnd creeping things can tell the vehement rageOf whirling storms of winds.Antistrophe IBut who man's temper overbold may tell,Or daring passionate lovesOf women bold in heart,Passions close bound with men's calamities?Love that true love disowns,That sways the weaker sex in brutes and men,Usurps o'er wedlock's ties.Strophe IIWhoso is not bird-witted, let him thinkWhat scheme she learnt to plan,Of subtle craft that wrought its will by fire,That wretched child of Thestios, who to slayHer son did set a-blazeThe brand that glowed blood-red,Which had its birth when first from out the wombHe came with infant's wail,And spanned the measure of its life with his,On to the destined day.433Antistrophe IIAnother, too, must we with loathing name,Skylla, with blood defiled.434Who for the sake of foes a dear one slew,Won by the gold-chased bracelets brought from Crete,The gifts that Minos gave,And knowing not the end,Robbed Nisos of his lock of deathless life,She with her dog-like heartSurprising him deep-breathing in his sleep;But Hermes comes on her.435Strophe IIIAnd since I tell the tale of ruthless woes…436Yet now 'tis not the timeTo tell of evil marriage which this houseDoth loathe and execrate,And of a woman's schemes and stratagemsAgainst a warrior chief,Chief whom his people honoured as was meet,I give my praise to hearth from hot broils free,And praise that woman's moodThat dares no deed of ill.Antistrophe IIIBut of all crimes the Lemnian foremost stands437And the Earth mourns that woeAs worthy of all loathing. Yes, this guiltOne might have well comparedWith Lemnian ills; and now that race is gone,To lowest shame brought downBy the foul guilt the Gods abominate:For no man honours what the Gods condemn,Which instance of all theseDo I not rightly urge?438Strophe IVAnd now the sword already at the heart,Sharp-pointed, strikes a blow that pierces through,While Vengeance guides the hand;For lo! the lawlessnessOf one who doth transgress all lawlesslyThe might and majesty of Zeus, lies notAs trampled under foot.439Antistrophe IVThe anvil-block of Vengeance firm is set,And Fate, the swordsmith, hammers on the bronzeBeforehand; and the childIs brought unto his home,And in due time the debt of guilt is paidBy the dark-souled Erinnys, famed of old,For blood of former days.Orestes and Pylades enter, disguised as Phokian travellers,go to the door of the palace, and knock loudlyOrest. What ho, boy! hear us knocking at the gate.Who is within, boy? who, boy? – hear, again;A third time now I give my summons here,If good Ægisthos' house be hospitable.[A Slave opens the doorSlave. Hold, hold; I hear. What stranger comes, and whence?Orest. Tell thou thy lords who over this house rule,To whom I come and tidings new report;And make good speed, for now the dusky carOf night comes on apace, and it is timeFor travellers in hospitable homesTo cast their anchor; and let some one comeFrom out the house who hath authority;The lady, if so be one ruleth here,But, seemlier far, her lord; for then no shameIn converse makes our words obscure and dim;But man with man gains courage to speak out,And makes his mission manifest as day. Enter ClytæmnestraClytæm. If ye need aught, O strangers, speak; for hereIs all that's fitting for a house like ours;Warm baths,440 and bed that giveth rest from toil,And presence of right honest faces too;If there be aught that needeth counsel more,That is men's business, and to them we'll tell it.Orest. A Daulian traveller, from Phokis come,Am I, and as I went on business bound,My baggage with me, unto Argos, I(Just as I set forth,) met a man I knew not,Who knew not me, and he then, having askedMy way and told me his, the Phokian Strophios(For so I learnt in talking) said to me,“Since thou dost go, my friend, for Argos bound,In any case, tell those who gave him birth,Remembering it right well, Orestes' death;See thou forget it not, and whether plansPrevail to fetch him home, or bury himThere where he is, a stranger evermore,Bear back the message as thy freight for us;For now the ribbed sides of an urn of bronzeThe ashes hide of one whom men have wept.”So much I heard and now have told; and ifI speak to kin that have a right in himI know not, but his father sure should know it.Clytæm. Ah, thou hast told how utterly our ruinIs now complete! O Curse of this our house,Full hard to wrestle with! How many things,Though lying out of reach, thou aimest at,And with well-darted arrows from afarDost bring them low! And now thou strippest me,Most wretched one, of all that most I loved.A lucky throw Orestes now was making,Getting his feet from out destruction's slough;But now the hope of high, exulting joy,Which this house had as healer, he scores downAs present in this fashion that we see.Orest. I could have wished to come to prosperous hosts,As known and welcomed for my tidings good;For who to hosts is friendlier than a guest?But 'twould have been as impious in my thoughtsNot to complete this matter for my friends,By promise bound and pledged as guest to host.Clytæm. Thou shalt not meet with less than thou deserv'st;Nor wilt thou be to this house less a friend;Another would have brought news all the same:But since 'tis time that strangers who have madeA long day's journey find the things they need,Lead him [to her Slave, pointing to Orestes] to these our hospitable halls,And these his fellow-travellers and servants:There let them meet with what befits our house.I bid thee act as one who gives account;And we unto the masters of our houseWill tell this news, and with no lack of friendsDeliberate of this calamity.441[Exeunt Clytæmnestra, Orestes, Pylades,and AttendantsChor. Come then, handmaids of the palace,When shall we with full-pitched voicesShow our feeling for Orestes?O earth revered! thou height revered, too,Of the mound piled o'er the bodyOf our navy's kingly captain,Oh, hear us now; oh, come and help us;For 'tis time for subtle Suasion442To go with them to the conflict,And that Hermes act as escort,He who dwells in earth's deep darkness,In the strife where swords work mischief. Enter KilissaChor. The stranger seems about to work some ill;And here I see Orestes' nurse in tears.Where then, Kilissa, art thou bound, that thusThou tread'st the palace-gates, and with thee comesGrief as a fellow-traveller unbidden?Kilis. Our mistress bids me with all speed to callÆgisthos to the strangers, that he comeAnd hear more clearly, as a man from man,This newly-brought report. Before her slaves,Under set eyes of melancholy cast,She hid her inner chuckle at the eventsThat have been brought to pass – too well for her,But for this house and hearth most miserably, —As in the tale the strangers clearly told.He, when he hears and learns the story's gist,Will joy, I trow, in heart. Ah, wretched me!How those old troubles, of all sorts made up,Most hard to bear, in Atreus' palace-hallsHave made my heart full heavy in my breast!But never have I known a woe like this.For other ills I bore full patiently,But as for dear Orestes, my sweet charge,Whom from his mother I received and nursed…And then the shrill cries rousing me o' nights.And many and unprofitable toilsFor me who bore them. For one needs must rearThe heedless infant like an animal,(How can it else be?) as his humour serves.For while a child is yet in swaddling clothes,It speaketh not, if either hunger comes,Or passing thirst, or lower calls of need;And children's stomach works its own content.And I, though I foresaw this, call to mindHow I was cheated, washing swaddling clothes,And nurse and laundress did the self-same work.I then with these my double handicrafts,Brought up Orestes for his father dear;And now, woe's me! I learn that he is dead,And go to fetch the man that mars this house:And gladly will he hear these words of mine.Chor. And how equipped then doth she bid him come?Nurse. 'How?' Speak again that I may better learn.Chor. By spearmen followed, or himself alone?Nurse. She bids him bring his guards with lances armed.Chor. Nay, say not that to him thy lord doth hate.443But bid him 'come alone,' (that so he hearWithout alarm,) 'full speed, with joyous mind,'Since 'secret speech with messengers goes best.'Nurse. And art thou of good cheer at this my tale?Chor. But what if Zeus will turn the tide of ill?Nurse. How so? Orestes, our one hope is gone.Chor. Not yet; a sorry seer might know thus much.Nurse. What say'st thou? Know'st thou aught besides my tale?Chor. Go tell thy message; do thine errand well:The Gods for what they care for, care enough.Nurse. I then will go, complying with thy words:May all, by God's gift, end most happily!Strophe IChor. Now to my prayer, O Father of the GodsOf high Olympos, Zeus,Grant that their fortune may be blest indeedWho long to look on goodness prospering well,Yea, with full right and truthI speak the word – O Zeus, preserve thou him!Strophe IIYea, Zeus, set him whom now the palace holds,Set him above his foes;For if thou raise him high,Then shall thou have, to thy heart's full content,Payment of twofold, threefold recompense.Antistrophe IKnow that the son of one who loved thee wellLike colt of sire bereaved,Is to the chariot of great evils yoked,And set thy limit to his weary path.Ah, would that one might seeHis panting footsteps, as he treads his course,Keeping due measure through this plain of ours!Strophe IIIAnd ye within the gate,Ye Gods, in purpose one,Who dwell in shrines enrichedWith all good things, come ye,And now with vengeance freshAtone for murder foulOf those that fell long since:And let that blood of old,When these are justly slain,Breed no more in our house.MesodeO Thou444 that dwellest in the cavern vast,Adorned with goodly gifts,Grant our lord's house to look up yet once more,And that it now may glance,In free and glorious guiseWith loving kindly eyes,From out its veil of gloom.Let Maia's son445 too giveHis righteous help, and waftGood end with prosperous gale.Antistrophe IIIAnd things that now are hid,He, if he will, will bringAs to the daylight clear;But when it pleases himDark, hidden words to speak,As in thick night he bearsBlack gloom before his face;446Nor is he in the dayOne whit more manifest.Strophe IVAnd then our treasured store,447The price as ransom paidTo free the house from ill,A woman's gift on breathOf favouring breeze onborne,We then with clamorous cry,To sound of cithern sweet,Will in the city pour;And if this prospers well,My gains, yea mine, 'twill swell, and Atè thenFrom those I love stands far.Antistrophe IIBut thou, take courage, when the time is comeFor action, and cry out,Shouting thy father's name,When she shall cry aloud the name of “son,”And work thou out a woe that none will blame.Antistrophe IVAnd have thou in thy breastThe heart that Perseus had,448And for thy friends beneath,And those on earth who dwell,Go thou and work the deedAcceptable to them,Of bitter, wrathful mood,And consummate withinThe loathly work of blood;[And bidding Vengeance come as thine ally,]Destroy the murderer. Enter ÆgisthosÆgis. Not without summons came I, but by wordOf courier fetched, and learn that travellers bringTheir tale of tidings new, in no wise welcome.As for Orestes' death, with it to chargeThe house would be a burden dropping fearTo one by that old bloodshed sorely stung.449How shall I count these things? As clear and true?Or are they vague reports of woman's fears,That leap up high and die away to nought?What can'st thou say that will my mind inform?Chor. We heard, 'tis true; but go thou in and askOf these same strangers. Nought is found in wordsOf messengers like asking, man from man.Ægis. I wish to see and probe the messenger,If he himself were present at the death,Or tells it hearing of a vague report:They shall not cheat a mind with eyes wide open.[ExitChor. Zeus! Zeus! what words shall INow speak, whence start in prayer,Invoking help of Gods?How with all wish for goodShall I speak fitting words?For now the sharp sword-points,Red with the blood of man,Will either work for ayeThe utter overthrowOf Agamemnon's house,Or, kindling fire and torchFor freedom thus achieved,Will he the sceptre wieldOf duly-ordered sway,His father's pride and state:Such is the contest he,Orestes, godlike one,Now wages all alone,The one sole combatant,450In place of him who fell,Against those twain. May victory be his!Ægisth. [groaning within] Ah! ah! Woe's me!Chor. Hark! hark! How goes it now?What issue has been wrought within the house?Let us hold back while they the deed are doing,That we may seem as guiltless of these ills:For surely now the fight has reached its end. Enter Servant from the chief doorServ. Alas! alas! my master perishes!Alas! alas! a third time yet I call.Ægisthos is no more; but open nowWith all your speed, and loosen ye the boltsThat bar the women's gates. A man's full strengthIs needed; not indeed that that would helpA man already slain.[Rushes to the gate of the woman's half of thepalaceHo there! I say:I speak to the deaf; to those that sleep I utterIn vain my useless cries. And where is she?Where's Clytæmnestra? What doth she do now?Her neck upon the razor's edge doth seemTo fall, down-stricken by a vengeance just. Enter Clytæmnestra from the side doorClytæm. What means all this? What cry is this thou mak'st?Serv. I say the dead are killing one who lives.Clytæm. Ah, me! I see the drift of thy dark speech;By guile we perish, as of old we slew:Let some one hand at once axe strong to slay;Let's see if we are conquered or can conquer,For to that point of evil am I come. Enter Orestes and Pylades from the other doorOrest. 'Tis thou I seek: he there has had enough.Clytæm. Ah me! my loved Ægisthos! Art thou dead?Orest. Lov'st thou the man? Then in the self-same tombShalt thou now lie, nor in his death desert him.Clytæm. [baring her bosom] Hold, boy! Respectthis breast of mine, my son,451Whence thou full oft, asleep, with toothless gums,Hast sucked the milk that sweetly fed thy life.Orest. What shall I do, my Pylades? Shall IThrough this respect forbear to slay my mother?Pyl. 452 Where, then, are Loxias' other oracles,The Pythian counsels, and the fast-sworn vows?Have all men hostile rather than the Gods.Orest. My judgment goes with thine; thou speakest well:[To Clytæmnestra] Follow: I mean to slay thee where he lies,For while he lived thou held'st him far aboveMy father. Sleep thou with him in thy death,Since thou lov'st him, and whom thou should'st love hatest.Clytæm. I reared thee, and would fain grow old with thee.Orest. What! Thou live with me, who did'st slay my father?Clytæm. Fate, O my son, must share the blame of that.Orest. This fatal doom, then, it is Fate that sends.Clytæm. Dost thou not fear a parent's curse, my son?Orest. Thou, though my mother, did'st to ill chance cast me.Clytæm. No outcast thou, so sent to house allied.Orest. I was sold doubly, though of free sire born.Clytæm. Where is the price, then, that I got for thee?Orest. I shrink for shame from pressing that charge home.Clytæm. Nay, tell thy father's wantonness as well.Orest. Blame not the man who toils when thou'rt at ease.453Clytæm. 'Tis hard, my son, for wives to miss their husband.Orest. The husband's toil keeps her that sits at home.[453]Clytæm. Thou seem'st, my son, about to slay thy mother.Orest. It is not I that slay thee, but thyself.Clytæm. Take heed, beware a mother's vengeful hounds.454Orest. How, slighting this, shall I escape my father's?Clytæm. I seem in life to wail as to a tomb.455Orest. My father's fate ordains this doom for thee.Clytæm. Ah me! the snake is here I bare and nursed.456Orest. An o'er-true prophet was that dread dream-born;Thou slewest one thou never should'st have slain,Now suffer fate should never have been thine.[Exit Orestes, leading Clytæmnestra into the palace, and followed by PyladesChor. E'en of these two I wail the twin mischance;But since long line of murder culminatesIn poor Orestes, this we yet accept,That he, our one light, fall not utterly.Strophe ILate came due vengeance on the sons of Priam,Just forfeit of sore woe; —Late came there too to Agamemnon's house,Twin lions, twofold Death.457The exile who obeyed the Pythian hestHath gained his full desire,Sped on his way by counsel from the Gods.Strophe IIShout ye, loud shout for the escape from illsOur master's house has seen,And from the wasting of his ancient wealthBy that defilèd pair,Ill fate intolerable.Antistrophe IAnd so on one who loves the war of guileRevenge came subtle-souled;And in the strife of hands the child of ZeusIn very deed gave help,(We mortals call her Vengeance, hitting wellThe meetest name for her,)Breathing destroying wrath against her foes.Strophe IIIShe, she it is whom Loxias summons now,Who dwelleth in Parnassia's cavern vast,Calling on her who stillIs guileful without guile,Halting of foot and tarrying over-long:The will of Gods is strangely overruled;It may not help the vile;458'Tis meet to adore the Power that rules in Heaven:At last we see the light.Antistrophe IINow is the bit that curbed the slaves ta'en off:459Arise, arise, O house:Too long, too long, all prostrate on the groundYe have been used to lie.· · · · ·Antistrophe IIIQuickly all-working Time will bring a changeAcross the threshold of the palace old,When from the altar-hearthIt shall drive all the guilt,With cleansing rites that chase away our woes;And Fortune's throws shall fall with gladsome cast,Once more benign to see,460For new-come strangers settled in the house:At last we see the light. Enter Orestes, Pylades, and followers from the palace. His attendants bear the robe in which Agamemnon had been murderedOrest. See ye this country's tyrant rulers twain,My father's murderers, wasters of his house;Stately were they, seen sitting on their thrones,Friends too e'en now, to argue from their fate,Whose oaths are kept to every pledge they gave.Firmly they swore that they would slay my father,And die together. Well those oaths are kept:And ye who hear these ills, behold ye nowTheir foul device, as bonds for my poor father,Handcuffs, and fetters both his feet to bind.Come, stretch it out, and standing all around,Show ye the snare that wrapt him o'er, that HeMay see, our Father, – not of mine I speak,But the great Sun that looks on all we do, —My mother's deeds, defilèd and impure,That He may be a witness in my cause,That I did justly bring this doom to passUpon my mother… Of Ægisthos' fateNo word I speak. He bears the penalty,As runs the law, of an adulterer's guilt;But she who planned this crime against a manBy whom she knew the weight of children borneBeneath her girdle, once a burden loved,But now, as it is proved, a grievous ill,What seems she to you? Had she viper been,Or fell myræna,461 she with touch alone,Rather than bite, had made a festering soreWith that bold daring of unrighteous mood.What shall I call it, using mildest speech?A wild beast's trap? – a pall that wraps a bier,And hides a dead man's feet? – A net, I trow,A snare, a robe entangling, one might call it.Such might be owned by one to plunder trained,Practised in duping travellers, and the lifeThat robs men of their money; with this trapDestroying many, many deeds of illHis fevered brain might hatch. May such as sheNe'er share my dwelling! May the hand of GodFar rather smite me that I childless die!Chor. [looking on Agamemnon's robe.] Ah me! ah me! these deeds most miserable!By hateful murder thou wast done to death.Woe, woe is me!And evil buds and blooms for him that's left.Orest. Was the deed hers or no? Lo! this same robeBears witness how she dyed Ægisthos' sword,And the blood-stain helps Time's destroying work,Marring full many a tint of pattern fair:Now name I it, now as eye-witness wail;462And calling on this robe that slew my father,Moan for all done and suffered, wail my race,Bearing the foul stains of this victory.Chor. No mortal man shall live a life unharmed,Stout-hearted and rejoicing evermore.Woe, woe is me!One trouble vexes now, another comes.Orest. (wildly, as one distraught.) Nay, know ye – for I know not how 'twill end;Like chariot-driver with his steeds I'm draggedOut of my course; for passion's moods uncurbedBear me their victim headlong. At my heartStands terror ready or to sing or danceIn burst of frenzy. While my reason stays,I tell my friends here that I slew my mother,Not without right, my father's murderess,Accursed, and hated of the Gods. And IAs chiefest spell that made me dare this deedCount Loxias, Pythian prophet, warning meThat doing this I should be free from blame,But slighting… I pass o'er the penalty463…For none, aim as he will, such woes will hit.And now ye see me, in what guise equipped,[Putting on the suppliant's wreaths of wool, andtaking an olive branch in his handWith this my bough and chaplet I will gainEarth's central shrine, the home where Loxias dwells,And the bright fire that is as deathless known,464Seeking to 'scape this guilt of kindred blood;And on no other hearth, so Loxias bade,May I seek shelter. And I charge you all,Ye Argives, bear ye witness in due timeHow these dark deeds of wretched ill were wrought:But I, a wanderer, exiled from my land,Shall live, and leaving these my prayers in death…Chor. Nay, thou hast prospered: burden not thy lipsWith evil speech, nor speak ill-boding words,When thou hast freed the Argive commonwealth,By good chance lopping those two serpents' heads.[The Erinnyes are seen in the background, visible to Orestes only, in black robes, and withsnakes in their hairOrest. Ah! ah! ye handmaids: see, like Gorgons these,Dark-robed, and all their tresses hang entwinedWith many serpents. I can bear no more.Chor. What phantoms vex thee, best beloved of sonsBy thy dear sire? Hold, fear not, victory's thine.Orest. These are no phantom terrors that I see:Full clear they are my mother's vengeful hounds.Chor. The blood fresh-shed is yet upon thy hands,And thence it is these troubles haunt thy soul.Orest. O King Apollo! See, they swarm, they swarm,And from their eyes is dropping loathsome blood.Chor. One way of cleansing is there; Loxias' formClasp thou, and he will free thee from these ills.Orest. These forms ye see not, but I see them there:They drive me on, and I can bear no more. [ExitChor. Well, may'st thou prosper; may the gracious GodWatch o'er and guard thee with a chance well timed!Here, then, upon this palace of our kingsA third storm blows again;The blast that haunts the race has run its course.First came the wretched meal of children's flesh;Next what befell our king:Slain in the bath was he who ruled our host,Of all the Achæans lord;And now a third has come, we know not whence,465To save … or shall I say,To work a doom of death?Where will it end? Where will it cease at last,The mighty Atè dread,Lulled into slumber deep?