Classic Poem

Agam. O child of Leda, guardian of my home,
Thy speech hath with my absence well agreed —
For long indeed thou mad'st it — but fit praise
Is boon that I must seek at other hands.
I pray thee, do not in thy woman's fashion
Pamper my pride, nor in barbaric guise
Prostrate on earth raise full-mouthed cries to me;
Make not my path offensive to the Gods
By spreading it with carpets. They alone
May claim that honour; but for mortal men
To walk on fair embroidery, to me
Seems nowise without peril. So I bid you
To honour me as man, and not as God.
Apart from all foot-mats and tapestry
My fame speaks loudly; and God's greatest gift
Is not to err from wisdom. We must bless
Him only who ends life in fair estate.
Should I thus act throughout, good hope were mine.
Clytaem. Nay, say not this my purposes to thwart.
Agam. Know I change not for the worse my purpose.
Clytaem. In fear, perchance, thou vowed'st thus to act.
Agam. If any, I, with good ground spoke my will.
Clytaem. What think'st thou Priam, had he wrought such deeds ...?
Agam. Full gladly he, I trow, had trod on carpets.
Clytaem. Then shrink not thou through fear of men's dispraise.
Agam. And yet a people's whisper hath great might.
Clytaem. Who is not envied is not enviable.
Agam. 'Tis not a woman's part to crave for strife.
Clytaem. True, yet the prosperous e'en should sometimes yield.
Agam. Dost thou then prize that victory in the strife?
Clytaem. Nay, list: with all good-will yield me this boon.
Agam. Well, then, if thou wilt have it so, with speed
Let some one loose my buskins (servants they
Doing the foot's true work), and as I tread
Upon these robes sea-purpled, may no wrath
From glance of Gods smite on me from afar!
Great shame I feel to trample with my foot
This wealth of carpets, costliest work of looms;
So far for this. This stranger lead thou in
With kindliness. On him who gently wields
His power God's eye looks kindly from afar.
None of their own will choose a bondslave's life;
And she, the chosen flower of many spoils,
Has followed with me as the army's gift.
But since I turn, obeying thee in this,
I'll to my palace go, on purple treading.
Clytaem. There is a sea, — and who shall drain it dry?
Producing still new store of purple juice,
Precious as silver, staining many a robe.
And in our house, with God's help, O my king,
'Tis ours to boast our palace knows no stint.
Trampling of many robes would I have vowed,
Had that been ordered me in oracles,
When for my lord's return I then did plan
My votive gifts. For while the root lives on,
The foliage stretches even to the house,
And spreads its shade against the dog-star's rage;
So when thou comest to thy hearth and home,
Thou show'st that warmth hath come in winter time;
And when from unripe clusters Zeus matures
The wine, then is there coolness in the house,
If the true master dwelleth in his home.
Ah, Zeus! the All-worker, Zeus, work out for me
All that I pray for; let it be thy care
To look to what Thou purposest to work.

Strophe I

Chor. Why thus continually
Do haunting phantoms hover at the gate
Of my foreboding heart?
Why floats prophetic song, unbought, unbidden?
Why doth no steadfast trust
Sit on my mind's dear throne,
To fling it from me as a vision dim?
Long time hath passed since stern-ropes of our ships
Were fastened on the sand, when our great host
Of those that sailed in ships
Had come to Ilion's towers:

A NTISTROPHE I

And now from these mine eyes
I learn, myself reporting to myself,
Their safe return; and yet
My mind within itself, taught by itself,
Chanteth Erinnys' dirge,
The lyreless melody,
And hath no strength of wonted confidence.
Not vain these inner pulses, as my heart
Whirls eddying in breast oracular.
I, against hope, will pray
It prove false oracle.

Strophe II

Of high, o'erflowing health
There is no bound that stays the wish for more,
For evermore disease, as neighbour close
Whom but a wall divides,
Upon it presses; and man's prosperous state
Moves on its course, and strikes
Upon an unseen rock;
But if his fear for safety of his freight,
A part, from well-poised sling, shall sacrifice,
Then the whole house sinks not,
O'erfilled with wretchedness,
Nor does he swamp his boat:
So, too, abundant gift
From Zeus in bounteous fulness, and the fruit
Of glebe at harvest tide
Have caused to cease sore hunger's pestilence;

A NTISTROPHE II

But blood that once hath flowed
In purple stains of death upon the ground
At a man's feet, who then can bid it back
By any charm of song?
Else him who knew to call the dead to life
Zeus had not sternly checked,
As warning unto all;
But unless Fate, firm-fixed, had barred our fate
From any chance of succour from the Gods,
Then had my heart poured forth
Its thoughts, outstripping speech.
But now in gloom it wails
Sore vexed, with little hope
At any time hereafter fitting end
To find, unravelling,
My soul within me burning with hot thoughts.

Thou too — I mean Cassandra — go within;
Since Zeus hath made it thine, and not in wrath,
To share the lustral waters in our house,
Standing with many a slave the altar nigh
Of Zeus, who guards our goods. Now get thee down
From out this car, nor look so over proud.
They say that e'en Alcmena's son endured
Being sold a slave, constrained to bear the yoke:
And if the doom of this ill chance should come,
Great boon it is to meet with lords who own
Ancestral wealth. But whoso reap full crops
They never dared to hope for, these in all,
And beyond measure, to their slaves are harsh:
From us thou hast what usage doth prescribe.
Chor. So ends she, speaking words full clear to thee:
And seeing thou art in the toils of fate,
If thou obey, thou wilt obey; and yet,
Perchance, obey thou wilt not.
Clytaem. Nay, but unless she, like a swallow, speaks
A barbarous tongue unknown, I speaking now
Within her apprehension, bid obey.
Chor. Go with her. What she bids is now the best;
Obey her: leave thy seat upon this car.
Clytaem. I have no leisure here to stay without:
For as regards our central altar, there
The sheep stand by as victims for the fire;
For never had we hoped such thanks to give:
If thou wilt do this, make no more delay;
But if thou understandest not my words,
Then wave thy foreign hand in lieu of speech.
Chor. The stranger seems a clear interpreter
To need. Her look is like a captured deer's.
Clytaem. Nay, she is mad, and follows evil thoughts,
Since, leaving now her city, newly-captured,
She comes, and knows not how to take the curb,
Ere she foam out her passion in her blood.
I will not bear the shame of uttering more.