Part 6 (1/2)

War is not woman's part, nor war of words.

CLYTEMNESTRA

Yet happy victors well may yield therein.

AGAMEMNON

Dost crave for triumph in this petty strife?

CLYTEMNESTRA

Yield; of thy grace permit me to prevail!

AGAMEMNON

Then, if thou wilt, let some one stoop to loose Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot: And stepping thus upon the sea's rich dye, I pray, _Let none among the G.o.ds look down With jealous eye on me_--reluctant all, To trample thus and mar a thing of price, Wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth.

Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid, Lead her within, but gently: G.o.d on high Looks graciously on him whom triumph's hour Has made not pitiless. None willingly Wear the slave's yoke--and she, the prize and flower Of all we won, comes. .h.i.ther in my train, Gift of the army to its chief and lord.

--Now, since in this my will bows down to thine, I will pa.s.s in on purples to my home.

CLYTEMNESTRA

A Sea there is--and who shall stay its springs?

And deep within its breast, a mighty store, Precious as silver, of the purple dye, Whereby the dipped robe doth its tint renew.

Enough of such, O king, within thy halls There lies, a store that cannot fail; but I-- I would have gladly vowed unto the G.o.ds Cost of a thousand garments trodden thus, (Had once the oracle such gift required) Contriving ransom for thy life preserved.

For while the stock is firm the foliage climbs, Spreading a shade what time the dog-star glows; And thou, returning to thine hearth and home, Art as a genial warmth in winter hours, Or as a coolness, when the lord of heaven Mellows the juice within the bitter grape.

Such boons and more doth bring into a home The present footstep of its proper lord.

Zeus, Zeus, Fulfilment's lord! my vows fulfil, And whatsoe'er it be, work forth thy will!

[_Exeunt all but Ca.s.sandra and the Chorus._

CHORUS

Wherefore for ever on the wings of fear Hovers a vision drear Before my boding heart? a strain, Unbidden and unwelcome, thrills mine ear, Oracular of pain.

Not as of old upon my bosom's throne Sits Confidence, to spurn Such fears, like dreams we know not to discern.

Old, old and gray long since the time has grown, Which saw the linked cables moor The fleet, when erst it came to Ilion's sandy sh.o.r.e; And now mine eyes and not another's see Their safe return.

Yet none the less in me The inner spirit sings a boding song, Self-prompted, sings the Furies' strain-- And seeks, and seeks in vain, To hope and to be strong!

Ah! to some end of Fate, unseen, unguessed, Are these wild throbbings of my heart and breast?

Yea, of some doom they tell?

Each pulse, a knell.

Lief, lief I were, that all To unfulfilment's hidden realm might fall.

Too far, too far our mortal spirits strive, Grasping at utter weal, unsatisfied-- Till the fell curse, that dwelleth hard beside, Thrust down the sundering wall. Too fair they blow, The gales that waft our bark on Fortune's tide!

Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive Upon the hidden rock, the reef of woe.

Then if the hand of caution warily Sling forth into the sea Part of the freight, lest all should sink below, From the deep death it saves the bark: even so, Doom-laden though it be, once more may rise His household, who is timely wise.

How oft the famine-stricken field Is saved by G.o.d's large gift, the new year's yield!