Agamemnon

Hast thou made flower-forth, red

With the blood no rains disperse,

That which was then in the House —

Strife all-subduing, the woe of a spouse.

Nowise, of death the fate —

Burdened by these things — supplicate!

Nor on Helena turn thy wrath

As the man-destroyer, as she who hath,

Being but one,

Many and many a soul undone

Of the men, the Danaoi —

And wrought immense annoy!

Daimon, who fallest

Upon this household and the double-raced

Tantalidai, a rule, minded like theirs displaced,

Thou rulest me with, now,

Whose heart thou gallest!

And on the body, like a hateful crow,

Stationed, all out of tune, his chant to chant

Doth Something vaunt!

Now, of a truth, hast thou set upright

Thy mouth’s opinion, —

Naming the Sprite,

The triply gross,

O’er the race that has dominion:

For through him it is that Eros

The carnage-licker

In the belly is bred: ere ended quite

Is the elder throe — new ichor!

Certainly, great of might

And heavy of wrath, the Sprite

Thou tellest of, in the palace

(Woe, woe!)

— An evil tale of a fate

By Até’s malice

Rendered insatiate!

Oh, oh, —

King, king, how shall I beweep thee?

From friendly soul whatever say?

Thou liest where webs of the spider o’ersweep thee

In impious death, life breathing away.

O me — me!

This couch, not free.

By a slavish death subdued thou art,

From the hand, by the two-edged dart.

Thou boastest this deed to be mine:

But leave off styling me

The Agamemnonian wife!

For, showing himself in sign

Of the spouse of the corpse thou dost see,

Did the ancient bitter avenging-ghost

Of Atreus, savage host,

Pay the man here as price —

A full-grown for the young one’s sacrifice.

That no cause, indeed, of this killing art thou,

Who shall be witness-bearer?

How shall he bear it — how?

But the sire’s avenging-ghost might be in the deed a sharer.

He is forced on and on

By the kin-born flowing of blood,

— Black Ares: to where, having gone,

He shall leave off, flowing done,

At the frozen-child’s-flesh food.

King, king, how shall I beweep thee?

From friendly soul whatever say?

Thou liest where webs of the spider o’ersweep thee

In impious death, life breathing away.

O me — me!

This couch, not free!

By a slavish death subdued thou art,

From the hand, by the two-edged dart.

No death unfit for the free

Do I think this man’s to be:

For did not himself a slavish curse

To his household decree?

But the scion of him, myself did nurse —

That much-bewailed Iphigeneia, he

Having done well by, — and as well, nor worse,

Been done to, — let him not in Haides loudly

Bear himself proudly!

Being by sword-destroying death amerced

For that sword’s punishment himself inflicted first.

I at a loss am left —

Of a feasible scheme of mind bereft —

Where I may turn: for the house is falling:

I fear the bloody crash of the rain

That ruins the roof as it bursts amain:

The warning-drop

Has come to a stop.

Destiny doth Justice whet

For other deed of hurt, on other whetstones yet.

Woe, earth, earth — would thou hadst taken me

Ere I saw the man I see,

On the pallet-bed

Of the silver-sided bath-vase, dead!

Who is it shall bury him, who

Sing his dirge? Can it be true

That thou wilt dare this same to do —

Having slain thy husband, thine own,

To make his funeral moan: