Part 9 (2/2)
Dark! all too well I speak the Grecian tongue.
CHORUS
Ay--but in thine, as in Apollo's strains, Familiar is the tongue, but dark the thought.
Ca.s.sANDRA
Ah ah the fire! it waxes, nears me now-- Woe, woe for me, Apollo of the dawn!
Lo, how the woman-thing, the lioness Couched with the wolf--her n.o.ble mate afar-- Will slay me, slave forlorn! Yea, like some witch She drugs the cup of wrath, that slays her lord With double death--his recompense for me!
Ay, 'tis for me, the prey he bore from Troy, That she hath sworn his death, and edged the steel!
Ye wands, ye wreaths that cling around my neck, Ye showed me prophetess yet scorned of all-- I stamp you into death, or e'er I die-- Down, to destruction!
Thus I stand revenged-- Go, crown some other with a prophet's woe.
Look! it is he, it is Apollo's self Rending from me the prophet-robe he gave G.o.d! while I wore it yet, thou saw'st me mocked There at my home by each malicious mouth-- To all and each, an undivided scorn.
The name alike and fate of witch and cheat-- Woe, poverty, and famine--all I bore; And at this last the G.o.d hath brought me here Into death's toils, and what his love had made His hate unmakes me now: and I shall stand Not now before the altar of my home, But me a slaughter-house and block of blood Shall see hewn down, a reeking sacrifice.
Yet shall the G.o.ds have heed of me who die, For by their will shall one requite my doom.
He, to avenge his father's blood outpoured, Shall smite and slay with matricidal hand.
Ay, he shall come--tho' far away he roam, A banished wanderer in a stranger's land-- To crown his kindred's edifice of ill, Called home to vengeance by his father's fall: Thus have the high G.o.ds sworn, and shall fulfil.
And now why mourn I, tarrying on earth, Since first mine Ilion has found its fate And I beheld, and those who won the wall Pa.s.s to such issue as the G.o.ds ordain?
I too will pa.s.s and like them dare to die!
[_Turns and looks upon the palace door._
Portal of Hades, thus I bid thee hail!
Grant me one boon--a swift and mortal stroke, That all unwrung by pain, with ebbing blood Shed forth in quiet death, I close mine eyes.
CHORUS
Maid of mysterious woes, mysterious lore, Long was thy prophecy: but if aright Thou readest all thy fate, how, thus unscared, Dost thou approach the altar of thy doom, As fronts the knife some victim, heaven-controlled?
Ca.s.sANDRA
Friends, there is no avoidance in delay.
CHORUS
Yet who delays the longest, his the gain.
Ca.s.sANDRA
The day is come--flight were small gain to me!
CHORUS
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