And still as each new victim falls, And gorged with kingly gore, Down on the bleeding carcass flings,
And croaks for "More, more, more!"
Ay, now, indeed, you harp on likelier strings. Not I, nor Helen, but that terrible Alastor of old Tantalus in Hell;
Who, one sole actor in the scene begun By him, and carried down from sire to son, The mask of Victim and Avenger shifts: And, for a last catastrophe, that grim
Guest of the abominable banquet lifts His head from Hell, and in my person cries For one full-grown sufficient sacrifice,
Requital of the feast prepared for him Of his own flesh and blood And there it lies. Chorus- O Agamemnon! O my Lord! Who, after ten years toiled; After barbarian lance and sword Encountered, fought, and foiled; Returning with the just award Of Glory, thus inglorious by Thine own domestic Altar die, Fast in the spider meshes coiled Of Treason most abhorred!
And by what retribution more complete, Than, having in the meshes of deceit Enticed my child, and slain her like a fawn Upon the altar; to that altar drawn. Himself, like an unconscious beast, full-fed With Conquest, and the garland on his head,
Is slain? and now, gone down among the Ghost, Of taken Troy indeed may make the most, But not one unrequited murder boast. Chorus-
Oh, Agamemnon, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead! What hand, what pious hand shall wash the wound Through which the sacred spirit ebbed and fled! With reverend care composed, and to the ground Commit the mangled form of Majesty,
And pour the due libation o'er the mound! Clytemnestra-
This hand, that struck the guilty life away,
The guiltless carcass in the dust shall lay With due solemnities: and if with no
Mock tears, or howling counterfeit of woe, On this side earth; perhaps the innocent thing, Whom with paternal love he sent before, Meeting him by the melancholy shore,
Her arms about him with a kiss shall fling, And lead him to his shadowy throne below. Chorus-Alas! alas! the fatal rent
Which through the house of Atreus went, Gapes again; a purple rain
Sweats the marble floor, and falls From the tottering roof and walls, The Demon heaving under; gone The master prop they rested on: And the storm once more awake
Of Nemesis; of Nemesis Whose fury who shall slake!
Even I; who by this last grand victim hope The Pyramid of Vengeance so to cope, That and methinks I hear him in the deep Beneath us growling toward his rest Alastor to some other roof may turn, Leaving us here at last in peace to keep What of life's harvest yet remains to reap.
Chorus-Thou to talk of reaping Peace
Who sowest Murder! Woman, cease!
And, despite that iron face
Iron as the bloody mace
Thou bearest boasting as if Vengeance Centered in that hand alone;
Know that, Fury pledged to Fury, Vengeance owes himself the debts
He makes, and while he serves thee, whets His knife upon another stone,
Against thyself, and him with thee Colleaguing, as you boast to be, The tools of Fate. But Fate is Zeus; Zeus-who for a while permitting
Sin to prosper in his name, Shall vindicate his own abuse; And having brought his secret thought To light, shall break and fling to shame The baser tools with which he wrought,
All hail, thou daybreak of my just revenge! In which, as waking from injurious sleep, Methinks I recognize the Gods enthroned In the bright conclave of eternal Justice, Revindicate the wrongs of man to man! For see this man so dear to me now dead Caught in the very meshes of the snare By which his father Atreus netted mine. For that same Atreus surely, was it not? Who, wrought by false Suspicion to fixed Hate, From Argos out his younger brother drove, My sire-Thyestes - drove him like a wolf, Keeping his cubs save one - to better purpose. For when at last the home-heartbroken man Crept humbly back again, craving no more Of his own country than to breathe its air In liberty, and of her fruits as much
the savage King, With damnable alacrity of hate,
And reconciliation of revenge,
Bade him, all smiles, to supper-such a supper, Where the prime dainty was my brother's flesh, So maimed and clipt of human likelihood,
That the unsuspecting Father, light of heart, And quick of appetite, at once fell to,
And ate-ate- what, with savage irony
As soon as eaten, told the wretched man Disgorging with a shriek, down to the ground The table with its curst utensil dashed, And, grinding into pieces with his heel,
Cried, loud enough for Heaven and Hell to hear, "Thus perish all the race of Pleisthenes!" And now behold! the son of that same Atreus By me the son of that Thyestes slain Whom the kind brother, sparing from the cook, Had with his victim packed to banishment; Where Nemesis-(so sinners from some nook, Whence least they think assailable, assailed)- Reared me from infancy till fully grown, To claim in full my father's bloody due. Ay, I it was - none other- far away
Who spun the thread, which gathering day by day Mesh after mesh, inch upon inch, at last Reached him, and wound about him, as he lay,
And in the supper of his smoking Troy Devoured his own destruction scarce condign Return for that his Father forced on mine.
Ægisthus, only things of baser breed Insult the fallen; fallen too, as you boast, By one who planned but dared not do the deed. This is your hour of triumph. But take heed; The blood of Atreus is not all outrun
With this slain King, but flowing in a son,
Who saved by such an exile as your own For such a counter retribution
You then, the nether benches of the realm, Dare open tongue on those who rule the helm ? Take heed yourselves; for, old and dull of wit, And hardened as your mouth against the bit, Be wise in time; kick not against the spurs ; Remembering Princes are shrewd taskmasters. Chorus Beware thyself, bewaring me;
Remembering that, too sharply stirred, The spurrer need beware the spurred; As thou of me; whose single word Shall rouse the City-yea, the very Stones you walk upon, in thunder Gathering o'er your head, to bury Thee and thine Adultress under!
Egisthus-Raven, that with croaking jaws
Unorphean, undivine,
After you no City draws;
And if any vengeance, mine Upon your withered shoulders --
Who daring not to strike the blow Thy worse than woman craft designed, To worse than woman
Softly, good Ægisthus, softly; let the sword that has so
Drunk of righteous Retribution now within the scabbard
And if Nemesis be sated with the blood already spilt,
Even so let us, nor carry lawful Justice into Guilt. Sheathe your sword; dismiss your spears; and you, Old
And, ere ill blood come to running, each unto his home in
Recognizing what is done for done indeed, as done it is, And husbanding your scanty breath to pray that nothing more amiss.
Farewell. Meanwhile, you and I, Ægisthus, shall deliberate, When the storm is blowing under, how to settle House and State.
THE DOWNFALL AND DEATH OF KING EDIPUS.1
(Version of Edward Fitzgerald.)
[SOPHOCLES: A famous Greek tragic poet; born at Colonus, near Athens, probably in B.C. 495. He received a careful education, and at his first appearance as a tragic poet, when only twenty-seven years old, gained a victory over the veteran Eschylus. From that time until extreme old age he maintained his preeminence, obtaining the first prize more than twenty times. He also took part in political affairs, and during the Samian war (B.c. 440) was one of the ten generals acting jointly with Pericles. Of the one hundred and thirty dramas ascribed to him only seven are preserved complete: "Trachiniæ,"
'Ajax," Philoctetes," "Electra," "Edipus Tyrannus," "Edipus at Colonus," and "Antigone." Among the innovations which Sophocles made in the drama were the introduction of a third actor, the increase of the number of the chorus from twelve to fifteen, and the perfection of costumes and decoration.]
EDIPUS, PRIEST, and SUPPLIANTS assembled before his Palace Gate,
Children of Cadmus, and as mine to me,
When all that of the plague-struck city can
With lamentation loud, and sacrifice,
Beset the shrines and altars of the Gods
Through street and market, by the Temples twain
Of Pallas, and before the Tomb that shrouds
Ismenus his prophetic ashes-why
Be you thus gathered at my palace door,
Mute, with the Suppliant's olive branch in hand? Asking, or deprecating, what? which I, Not satisfied from other lips to learn, Myself am come to hear it from your own. You, whose grave aspect and investiture Announce the chosen oracle of all,
Tell me the purport: I am here, you see, As King, and Father of his people too,
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