Part 11 (1/2)
Such will is mine, and what thou say'st I say: Swiftly to act! the time brooks no delay.
ANOTHER
Ay, for 'tis plain, this prelude of their song Foretells its close in tyranny and wrong.
ANOTHER
Behold, we tarry--but thy name, Delay, They spurn, and press with sleepless hand to slay.
ANOTHER
I know not what 'twere well to counsel now-- Who wills to act, 'tis his to counsel how.
ANOTHER
Thy doubt is mine: for when a man is slain, I have no words to bring his life again.
ANOTHER
What? e'en for life's sake, bow us to obey These house-defilers and their tyrant sway?
ANOTHER
Unmanly doom! 'twere better far to die-- Death is a gentler lord than tyranny.
ANOTHER
Think well--must cry or sign of woe or pain Fix our conclusion that the chief is slain?
ANOTHER
Such talk befits us when the deed we see-- Conjecture dwells afar from certainty.
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
I read one will from many a diverse word, To know aright, how stands it with our lord!
[_The scene opens, disclosing Clytemnestra, who comes forward. The body of Agamemnon lies, m.u.f.fled in a long robe, within a silver-sided laver; the corpse of Ca.s.sandra is laid beside him._
CLYTEMNESTRA
Ho, ye who heard me speak so long and oft The glozing word that led me to my will?
Hear how I shrink not to unsay it all!
How else should one who willeth to requite Evil for evil to an enemy Disguised as friend, weave the mesh straitly round him, Not to be overleaped, a net of doom?
This is the sum and issue of old strife, Of me deep-pondered and at length fulfilled.
All is avowed, and as I smote I stand With foot set firm upon a finished thing!
I turn not to denial: thus I wrought So that he could nor flee nor ward his doom, Even as the trammel hems the scaly shoal, I trapped him with inextricable toils, The ill abundance of a baffling robe; Then smote him, once, again--and at each wound He cried aloud, then as in death relaxed Each limb and sank to earth; and as he lay, Once more I smote him, with the last third blow, Sacred to Hades, saviour of the dead.
And thus he fell, and as he pa.s.sed away, Spirit with body chafed; each dying breath Flung from his breast swift bubbling jets of gore, And the dark sprinklings of the rain of blood Fell upon me; and I was fain to feel That dew--not sweeter is the rain of heaven To cornland, when the green sheath teems with grain,
Elders of Argos--since the thing stands so, I bid you to rejoice, if such your will: Rejoice or not, I vaunt and praise the deed, And well I ween, if seemly it could be, 'Twere not ill done to pour libations here, Justly--ay, more than justly--on his corpse Who filled his home with curses as with wine, And thus returned to drain the cup he filled.
CHORUS
I marvel at thy tongue's audacity, To vaunt thus loudly o'er a husband slain.
CLYTEMNESTRA