Agamemnon: Act I

Ghost of Thyestes: Escaped from gloomy Pluto's murky realmAnd leaving Tartara's deep pit I come,All doubting which abode I hate the more;That world I flee, but this I put to flight.My soul shrinks back, my limbs do quake with fear.I see my father's house--my brother's too!Here is the ancient seat of Pelop's race;In this proud hall it is Pelasgians' wontTo crown their kings; here sit those overlordsWhose hands the kingdom's haughty scepter wield;Here is their council chamber--here they feast!Let me go hence. Were it not better farTo sit beside the dark, sad pools of Styx,And see the hell-hound's black and tossing mane?Where one, bound fast upon a whirling wheel,Back to himself is borne; where fruitless toilIs mocked forever by the rolling stone;Where living vitals glut the vulture's greed,Consumed but e'er renewed; and one old man,By mocking waves surrounded, seeks in vainTo sate his burning thirst, dire punishmentFor that he strove to trick th' immortal gods.But, ranked with mine, how slight that old man's sin!Take count of all whose impious deeds on earthMake them to tremble at the bar of hell:By my dread crimes will I outdo them all;--But not my brother's crimes. Three sons of mineLie buried in me, yea, mine own dear fleshHave I consumed. Nor this the only blotWith which dire fortune's hand hath stained my soul;But, daring greater sin, she bade me seek(Oh, foul impiety!) my daughter's arms.Bold for revenge, I dared and did the deed,And so fearful cycle was complete:As sons the sire, so sire the daughter filled.Then were the laws of nature backward turned:I mingled sire with grandsire, sons with grandsons;Yea, monstrous! husband and father did I join,And drove the day back to the shades of night.But fate at last, though doubtful, long deferred,Hath had regard unto my evil plight,And brought the day of vengeance near; for lo,This king of kings, this leader of the Greeks,This Agamemnon comes, whose royal flagA thousand Grecian vessels followingOnce filled the Trojan waters with their sails.Now ten bright suns have run their course, and TroyHas been o'erthrown, and he is close at hand--To place his neck in Clytemnestra's power.Now, now, this house shall flow again with blood,But this of Atreus' stock! Swords, axes, dartsI see, and that proud head with murderous strokeAsunder cleft; now impious crimes are near,Now treachery, slaughter, blood; the feast is spread.The cause, Aegisthus, of thy shameful birth,Is come at last. But why hangs down thy headIn shame? Why hesitates thy faltering handAnd sinks inactive? Why dost counsel takeWithin thy heart, and turn away, and askWhether this deed become thee? Do but thinkUpon thy mother; then wilt thou confessIt doth become thee well. But what drags outIn long delay this summer night's brief spanTo winter's hours of darkness? And what causePrevents the stars from sinking in the sky?The sun shrinks from my face. I must away,That so he may bring back the light of day.

Chorus of Argive women: On fortune's headlong brink they standWho hold the scepter in their hand;No safe assurance can they knowWho on too lofty pathways go:But care on care pursues them to the last,Their souls assailed and vexed by every blast.

As seas on Libya's sandy shoreTheir waves in ceaseless billows pour;As Euxine's swelling waters riseBeneath the lowering northern skies,Where bright Boötes wheels his teamHigh o'er the ocean's darksome stream:With such assaults, by such wild tempests blown,Does fortune batter at a kingly throne!

Who would be feared, in fear must live.No kindly night can refuge give;Nor sleep, that comforts all the rest,Can bring care-freedom to his breast.What throne so safe, on such foundation stands,That may not be destroyed by impious hands?

For justice, shame, the virtues all,E'en wifely faith, soon flee the hallWhere courtiers dwell. Within, there standsBellona dire with bloody hands;Erinys too, the dogging fate,Of them who hold too high estate,Which any hour from high to low may bring.Though arms be lacking, wiles be none,Still is the will of fortune done:By force of his own greatness falls the king.

'Tis ever thus: the bellying sailFears the o'erstrong though favoring gale;The tower feels rainy Auster's dreadIf to the clouds it rear its head;Huge oaks most feel the whirlwind's lash;High mountains most with thunder crash;And while the common herd in safety feeds,Their mighty leader, marked for slaughter, bleeds.

Fate places us on high, that soTo surer ruin we may go.The meanest things in longest fortune live.Then happy he whose modest soulIn safety seeks a nearer goal;Fearing to leave the friendly shore,He rows with unambitious oar,Content in low security to thrive.