BEING

THE AGAMEMNON, THE LIBATION-BEARERS, AND THE FURIES OF AESCHYLUS

THE LIBATION-BEARERS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ORESTES CHORUS OF CAPTIVE WOMEN ELECTRA A NURSE CLYTEMNESTRA AEGISTHUS AN ATTENDANT PYLADES

_The Scene is the Tomb of Agamemnon at Mycenae; afterwards, the Palace of Atreus, hard by the Tomb._

_Orestes_

Lord of the shades and patron of the realm That erst my father swayed, list now my prayer, Hermes, and save me with thine aiding arm, Me who from banishment returning stand On this my country; lo, my foot is set On this grave-mound, and herald-like, as thou, Once and again, I bid my father hear.

And these twin locks, from mine head shorn, I bring, And one to Inachus the river-G.o.d, My young life's nurturer, I dedicate, And one in sign of mourning unfulfilled I lay, though late, on this my father's grave.

For O my father, not beside thy corse Stood I to wail thy death, nor was my hand Stretched out to bear thee forth to burial.

What sight is yonder? what this woman-throng Hitherward coming, by their sable garb Made manifest as mourners? What hath chanced?

Doth some new sorrow hap within the home?

Or rightly may I deem that they draw near Bearing libations, such as soothe the ire Of dead men angered, to my father's grave?

Nay, such they are indeed; for I descry Electra mine own sister pacing hither, In moody grief conspicuous. Grant, O Zeus, Grant me my father's murder to avenge-- Be thou my willing champion!

Pylades, Pa.s.s we aside, till rightly I discern Wherefore these women throng in suppliance.

[_Exeunt Pylades and Orestes; enter the Chorus bearing vessels for libation; Electra follows them; they pace slowly towards the tomb of Agamemnon_.

CHORUS

Forth from the royal halls by high command I bear libations for the dead.

Rings on my smitten breast my smiting hand, And all my cheek is rent and red, Fresh-furrowed by my nails, and all my soul This many a day doth feed on cries of dole.

And trailing tatters of my vest, In looped and windowed raggedness forlorn, Hang rent around my breast, Even as I, by blows of Fate most stern Saddened and torn.

Oracular thro' visions, ghastly clear, Bearing a blast of wrath from realms below, And stiffening each rising hair with dread, Came out of dream-land Fear, And, loud and awful, bade The shriek ring out at midnight's witching hour, And brooded, stern with woe, Above the inner house, the woman's bower.

And seers inspired did read the dream on oaths, Chanting aloud _In realms below The dead are wroth; Against their slayers yet their ire doth glow_.

Therefore to bear this gift of graceless worth-- O Earth, my nursing mother!-- The woman G.o.d-accurs'd doth send me forth.

Lest one crime bring another.

Ill is the very word to speak, for none Can ransom or atone For blood once shed and darkening the plain.

O hearth of woe and bane, O state that low doth lie!

Sunless, accursed of men, the shadows brood Above the home of murdered majesty.

Rumour of might, unquestioned, unsubdued, Pervading ears and soul of lesser men, Is silent now and dead.

Yet rules a viler dread; For bliss and power, however won, As G.o.ds, and more than G.o.ds, dazzle our mortal ken.

Justice doth mark, with scales that swiftly sway, Some that are yet in light; Others in inters.p.a.ce of day and night, Till Fate arouse them, stay; And some are lapped in night, where all things are undone.

On the life-giving lap of Earth Blood hath flowed forth; And now, the seed of vengeance, clots the plain-- Unmelting, uneffaced the stain.

And Ate tarries long, but at the last The sinner's heart is cast Into pervading, waxing pangs of pain.

Lo, when man's force doth ope The virgin doors, there is nor cure nor hope For what is lost,--even so, I deem, Though in one channel ran Earth's every stream, Laving the hand defiled from murder's stain, It were vain.

And upon me--ah me!--the G.o.ds have laid The woe that wrapped round Troy, What time they led down from home and kin Unto a slave's employ-- The doom to bow the head And watch our master's will Work deeds of good and ill-- To see the headlong sway of force and sin, And hold restrained the spirit's bitter hate, Wailing the monarch's fruitless fate, Hiding my face within my robe, and fain Of tears, and chilled with frost of hidden pain.

ELECTRA

Hand maidens, orderers of the palace-halls, Since at my side ye come, a suppliant train, Companions of this offering, counsel me As best befits the time: for I, who pour Upon the grave these streams funereal, With what fair word can I invoke my sire?

Shall I aver, _Behold, I bear these gifts From well-beloved wife unto her well-beloved lord_, When 'tis from her, my mother, that they come?

I dare not say it: of all words I fail Wherewith to consecrate unto my sire These sacrificial honours on his grave.

Or shall I speak this word, as mortals use-- _Give back, to those who send these coronals Full recompense--of ills for acts malign?

Or shall I pour this draught for Earth to drink_, Sans word or reverence, as my sire was slain, And homeward pa.s.s with unreverted eyes, Casting the bowl away, as one who flings The household cleansings to the common road?

Be art and part, O friends, in this my doubt, Even as ye are in that one common hate Whereby we live attended: fear ye not The wrath of any man, nor hide your word Within your breast: the day of death and doom Awaits alike the freeman and the slave.

Speak, then, if aught thou know'st to aid us more.

CHORUS

Thou biddest; I will speak my soul's thought out, Revering as a shrine thy father's grave.

ELECTRA

Say then thy say, as thou his tomb reverest.

CHORUS

Speak solemn words to them that love, and pour.

ELECTRA

And of his kin whom dare I name as kind?

CHORUS

Thyself; and next, whoe'er Aegisthus scorns.

ELECTRA

Then 'tis myself and thou, my prayer must name.

CHORUS

Whoe'er they be, 'tis thine to know and name them.

ELECTRA

Is there no other we may claim as ours?

CHORUS

Think of Orestes, though far-off he be.

ELECTRA