Thy prophecies are but a lying tale
[The scene is the courtyard of the Palace at Argos. Agamemnon has already entered the House of Doom, and Klytaemnestra has followed close on his heels: — Kasandra is left alone upon the stage. The conscious terror of death, and the burden of prophecy, lie heavy upon her; terrible signs and visions greet her approach. She sees blood upon the lintel, and the smell of blood scares her, as some bird, from the door. The ghosts of the murdered children come to mourn with her. Her second sight pierces the palace walls; she sees the fatal bath, the trammelling net, and the axe sharpened for her own ruin and her lord's.
But not even in the hour of her last anguish is Apollo merciful; her warnings are unheeded; her prophetic utterances made mock of.
The orchestra is filled with a chorus of old men, weak, foolish, irresolute. They do not believe the weird woman of mystery till the hour for help is past, and the cry of Agamemnon echoes from the house, " Oh me! I am stricken with a stroke of death."]
Xopoj
Thy prophecies are but a lying tale,
For cruel gods have brought thee to this state,
And of thyself, and thine own wretched fate,
Sing you this song, and these unhallow'd lays,
Like the brown bird of grief insatiate
Crying for sorrow of its dreary days;
Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale —
The nightingale! the nightingale!
Kasandra
Yet I would that to me they had given
The fate of that singer so clear,
Fleet wings to fly up into heaven,
Away from all mourning and fear;
For ruin and slaughter await me — the cleaving with
sword and with spear.
Xoroj
Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain,
Sent by some god it may be, yet for nought?
Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain, —
Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain
With shrill sad cries, as if by death distraught?
Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy,
Where, upon either hand,
Landmarks for ever stand,
With horrid legend for all men to see?
Kasandra
O bitter bridegroom, who did'st bear
Ruin to those that loved thee true!
O holy stream Skamander, where
With gentle nurturement I grew
In the first days, when life and love were new.
And now — and now — it seems that I must lie
In the dark land that never sees the sun;
Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy,
By the black stream Kokutos, that doth run
Through long low hills of dreary Acheron.
Xoroj
Ah, but thy word is clear!
Even a child among men,
Even a child, might see
What is lying hidden here.
Ah! I am smitten deep
To the heart with a deadly blow!
At the evil fate of the maid,
At the cry of her song of woe;
Sorrows for her to bear!
Wonders for me to hear!
Kasandra
O my poor land, laid waste with flame and fire!
O ruin'd city, overthrown by fate!
Ah, what avail'd the offerings of my Sire
To keep the foreign foemen from the gate!
Ah, what avail'd the herds of pasturing kine
To save my country from the wrath divine!
Ah, neither prayer or priest availed aught,
Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought,
For the tall town lies desolate and low.
And I, the singer of this song of woe,
Know by the fire burning in my brain,
That Death, the healer of all earthly pain,
Is close at hand. I will not shirk the blow.
But not even in the hour of her last anguish is Apollo merciful; her warnings are unheeded; her prophetic utterances made mock of.
The orchestra is filled with a chorus of old men, weak, foolish, irresolute. They do not believe the weird woman of mystery till the hour for help is past, and the cry of Agamemnon echoes from the house, " Oh me! I am stricken with a stroke of death."]
Xopoj
Thy prophecies are but a lying tale,
For cruel gods have brought thee to this state,
And of thyself, and thine own wretched fate,
Sing you this song, and these unhallow'd lays,
Like the brown bird of grief insatiate
Crying for sorrow of its dreary days;
Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale —
The nightingale! the nightingale!
Kasandra
Yet I would that to me they had given
The fate of that singer so clear,
Fleet wings to fly up into heaven,
Away from all mourning and fear;
For ruin and slaughter await me — the cleaving with
sword and with spear.
Xoroj
Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain,
Sent by some god it may be, yet for nought?
Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain, —
Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain
With shrill sad cries, as if by death distraught?
Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy,
Where, upon either hand,
Landmarks for ever stand,
With horrid legend for all men to see?
Kasandra
O bitter bridegroom, who did'st bear
Ruin to those that loved thee true!
O holy stream Skamander, where
With gentle nurturement I grew
In the first days, when life and love were new.
And now — and now — it seems that I must lie
In the dark land that never sees the sun;
Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy,
By the black stream Kokutos, that doth run
Through long low hills of dreary Acheron.
Xoroj
Ah, but thy word is clear!
Even a child among men,
Even a child, might see
What is lying hidden here.
Ah! I am smitten deep
To the heart with a deadly blow!
At the evil fate of the maid,
At the cry of her song of woe;
Sorrows for her to bear!
Wonders for me to hear!
Kasandra
O my poor land, laid waste with flame and fire!
O ruin'd city, overthrown by fate!
Ah, what avail'd the offerings of my Sire
To keep the foreign foemen from the gate!
Ah, what avail'd the herds of pasturing kine
To save my country from the wrath divine!
Ah, neither prayer or priest availed aught,
Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought,
For the tall town lies desolate and low.
And I, the singer of this song of woe,
Know by the fire burning in my brain,
That Death, the healer of all earthly pain,
Is close at hand. I will not shirk the blow.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.