Thyestes: Act IV

Messenger: Oh, for some raging blast to carry meWith headlong speed through distant realms of air,And wrap me in the darkness of the clouds;That so I might this monstrous horror tearFrom my remembrance. Oh, thou house of shameTo Pelops even and to Tantalus!Chorus: What is the news thou bring'st?

Messenger: What realm is this?Argos and Sparta, once the noble homeOf pious brothers? Corinth, on whose shoresTwo rival oceans beat? Or do I seeThe barbarous Danube on whose frozen streamThe savage Alani make swift retreat?Hyrcania beneath eternal snows?Or those wide plains of wandering Scythians?What place is this that knows such hideous crime?

Chorus: But tell thy tidings, whatsoe'er they be.

Messenger: When I my scattered senses gather up,And horrid fear lets go its numbing holdUpon my limbs. Oh, but I see it still,The ghastly picture of that dreadful deed!Oh, come, ye whirlwinds wild, and bear me far,Far distant, where the vanished day is borne.

Chorus: Thou hold'st our minds in dire uncertainty.Speak out and tell us what this horror is,And who its author. Yet would I inquireNot who, but which he is. Speak quickly, then.

Messenger: There is upon the lofty citadelA part of Pelops' house that fronts the south,Whose farther side lifts up its massive wallsTo mountain heights; for so the reigning kingMay better sway the town, and hold in checkThe common rabble when it scorns the throne.Within this palace is a gleaming hall,So huge, it may a multitude contain;Whose golden architraves are high upborneBy stately columns of a varied hue.Behind this public hall where people throng,The palace stretches off in spacious rooms;And, deep withdrawn, the royal sanctum lies,Far from the vulgar gaze. This sacred spotAn ancient grove within a dale confines,Wherein no tree its cheerful shade affords,Or by the knife is pruned; but cypress treesAnd yews, and woods of gloomy ilex waveTheir melancholy boughs. Above them allA towering oak looks down and spreads abroad,O'ershadowing all the grove. Within this placeThe royal sons of Tantalus are wontTo ask consent of heaven to their rule,And here to seek its aid when fortune frowns.Here hang their consecrated offerings:Sonorous trumpets, broken chariots,Those famous spoils of the Myrtoan sea;Still hang upon the treacherous axle-treesThe conquered chariot-wheels--mementoes grimOf every crime this sinful race has done.Here also is the Phrygian turban hungOf Pelops' self; and here the spoil of foes,A rich embroidered robe, the prize of war.An oozy stream springs there beneath the shade,And sluggish creeps along within the swamp,Just like the ugly waters of the StyxWhich bind the oaths of heaven. 'Tis said that hereAt dead of night the hellish gods make moan,And all the grove resounds with clanking chains,And mournful howl of ghosts. Here may be seenWhatever, but to hear of, causes fear.The spirits of the ancient dead come forthFrom old, decaying tombs, and walk abroad;While monsters, greater than the world has known,Go leaping round, grotesque and terrible.The whole wood gleams with an uncanny light,And without sign of fire the palace glows.Ofttimes the grove re-echoes with the soundOf threefold bayings of the dogs of hell,And oft do mighty shapes affright the house.Nor are these fears allayed by light of day;For night reigns ever here, and e'en at noonThe horror of the underworld abides.From this dread spot are sure responses givenTo those who seek the oracle; the fatesWith mighty sound from out the grot are told,And all the cavern thunders with the god.'Twas to this spot that maddened Atreus came,His brother's children dragging in his train.The sacrificial altars are adorned--Oh, who can worthily describe the deed?Behind their backs the noble captives' handsAre bound, and purple fillets wreathe their brows.All things are ready, incense, sacred wine,The sacrificial meal, and fatal knife.The last detail is properly observed,That this outrageous murder may be doneIn strict observance of the ritual!Chorus: Who lays his hand unto the fatal steel?

Messenger: He is himself the priest; the baleful prayerHe makes, and chants the sacrificial songWith wild and boisterous words; before the shrineHe takes his place; the victims doomed to deathHe sets in order, and prepares the sword.He gives the closest heed to all detailsAnd misses no least portion of the rite.The grove begins to tremble, earth to quake,And all the palace totters with the shock,And seems to hesitate in conscious doubtWhere it shall throw its ponderous masses down.High on the left a star with darkling trainShoots swift athwart the sky; the sacred winePoured at the altar fires, with horrid change,Turns bloody as it flows. The royal crownFell twice and yet again from Atreus' head,And the ivory statues in the temple wept.These monstrous portents moved all others sore;But Atreus, only, held himself unmoved,And even set the threat'ning gods at naught.And now delay is at an end. He standsBefore the shrine with lowering, sidelong gaze.As in the jungle by the Ganges streamA hungry tigress stands between two bulls,Eager for both, but yet in doubtful moodWhich first shall feel her fangs (to this she turnsWith gaping jaws, then back to that again,And holds her raging hunger in suspense):So cruel Atreus eyes the victims doomedTo sate his curséd wrath; and hesitatesWho first shall feel the knife, and who shall dieThe next in order. 'Tis of no concern,But still he hesitates, and gloats awhileIn planning how to do the horrid deed.Chorus: Who then is first to die?

Messenger: First place he gives(Lest you should think him lacking in respect)Unto his grandsire's namesake, Tantalus.

Chorus: What spirit, what demeanor showed the youth?

Messenger: He stood quite unconcerned, nor strove to plead,Knowing such prayer were vain. But in his neckThat savage butcher plunged his gleaming swordClear to the hilt and drew it forth again.Still stood the corpse upright, and, wavering long,As 'twere in doubt or here or there to fall,At last prone on the uncle hurled itself.Then he, his rancor unabated still,Dragged youthful Plisthenes before the shrine,And quickly meted him his brother's fate.With one keen blow he smote him on the neck,Whereat his bleeding body fell to earth;While with a murmur inarticulate,His head with look complaining rolled away.

Chorus: What did he then, this twofold murder done?The last one spare, or heap up crime on crime?

Messenger: As when some manéd lion in the woodsVictorious attacks the Armenian herds--(His jaws are smeared with blood, his hunger gone;And yet he does not lay aside his wrath;Now here, now there he charges on the bulls,And now the calves he worries, though his teethAre weary with their work)--so Atreus raves;He swells with wrath; and, grasping in his handThe sword with double slaughter dripping yet,By fury blinded but with deadly stroke,He drives clean through the body of the boy.And so, from breast to back transfixed, he fallsBy double wound, and with his streaming bloodExtinguishes the baleful altar fires.

Chorus: Oh, horrid deed!

Messenger: What! horrid call ye that?If only there the course of crime had stopped,'Twould pious seem.

Chorus: What more atrocious crime,What greater sin could human heart conceive?

Messenger: And do ye think his crime was ended here?'Twas just begun.

Chorus: What further could there be?Perchance he threw the corpses to be tornBy raving beasts, and kept them from the fire?

Messenger: Would that he had! I do not pray for this,That friendly earth may give them burial,Or funeral fires consume; but only this,That as a ghastly meal they may be thrownTo birds and savage beasts. Such is my prayer,Which otherwise were direful punishment.Oh, that the father might their corpses seeDenied to sepulture! Oh, crime of crimes,Incredible in any age; a crimeWhich coming generations will refuseTo hear! Behold, from breasts yet warm with life,The exta, plucked away, lie quivering,The lungs still breathe, the timid heart still beats.But he the organs with a practiced handTurns deftly over, and inquires the fates,Observing carefully the viscera.With this inspection satisfied at length,With mind at ease, he now is free to planHis brother's awful feast. With his own handThe bodies he dismembers, carving offThe arms and shoulders, laying bare the bones,And all with savage joy. He only savesThe heads and hands, those hands which he himselfHad clasped in friendly faith. Some of the fleshIs placed on spits and by the roasting firesHangs dripping; other parts into a potAre thrown, where on the water's seething streamThey leap about. The fire in horror shrinksFrom the polluting touch of such a feast,Recoils upon the shuddering altar-hearthTwice and again, until at last constrained,Though with repugnance strong, it fiercely burns.The liver sputters strangely on the spits;Nor could I say whether the flesh or flamesGroan more. The fitful flames die out in smokeOf pitchy blackness; and the smoke itself,A heavy mournful cloud, mounts not aloftIn upward-shooting columns, straight and high,But settles down like a disfiguring shroudUpon the very statues of the gods.O all-enduring sun, though thou didst fleeIn horror from the sight, and the radiant noonDidst into darkness plunge; 'twas all too late.The father tears his sons, and impiously feastsOn his own flesh. See, there in state he sits,His hair anointed with the dripping nard,His senses dulled with wine. And oft the food,As if in horror held, sticks in his throat.In this thine evil hour one good remains,One only, O Thyestes: that to knowThy depth of suffering is spared to thee.But even this will perish. Though the sunShould turn his chariot backward on its course,And night, at noon arising from the earth,Should quite obscure this foul and ghastly crimeWith shades unknown, it could not be concealed;For every evil deed shall be revealed.

Chorus: O father of the earth and sky,Before whose rising beams the nightWith all her glories flees away;Oh, whither dost thou turn thy course,And why, midway of heaven, does dayTo darkness turn? O Phoebus, whyDost turn away thy shining face?Not yet has evening's messengerCalled forth the nightly stars; not yetThe rounding of thy western goalBids loose thy horses from their toil;Not yet, as day fades into night,Sounds forth the trumpets' evening call.The plowman stands in dumb amaze,With oxen still unspent with toil,To see the welcome supper hourSo quickly come. But what, O sun,Has driven thee from thy heavenly course?What cause from their accustomed wayHas turned thy steeds? Is war essayedOnce more by giants, bursting forthFrom out the riven gates of Dis?Does Tityos, though wounded sore,Renew his ancient, deadly wrath?Perchance Typhoeus has thrown offHis mountain, and is free once more;Perchance once more a way to heavenThose giants, felled in Phlegra's vale,Are building, and on Pelion's topAre piling Thracian Ossa high.The accustomed changes of the heavensAre gone to come no more. No moreThe rising and the setting sunShall we behold. Aurora bright,The herald of the dewy morn,Whose wont it is to speed the sunUpon his way, now stands amazedTo see her kingdom overturned.She is not skilled to bathe his steeds,A-weary with their rapid course,Nor in the cooling sea to plungeTheir reeking manes. The sun himself,In setting, sees the place of dawn,And bids the darkness fill the skyWithout the aid of night. No starsCome out, nor do the heavens gleamWith any fires; no moon dispelsThe darkness' black and heavy pall.Oh, that the night itself were here,Whatever this portends! Our heartsAre trembling, yea, are trembling sore,And smitten with a boding fearLest all the world in ruins fall,And formless chaos as of yoreO'erwhelm us, gods and men; lest land,And all-encircling sea, and starsThat wander in the spangled heavens,Be buried in the general doom.No more with gleaming, deathless torch,Shall Phoebus, lord of all the stars,Lead the procession of the yearsAnd mark the seasons; nevermoreShall Luna, flashing back his rays,Dispel the fears of night; and passIn shorter course her brother's car.The throng of heavenly beings soonShall in one vast abyss be heaped.That shining path of sacred stars,Which cuts obliquely 'thwart the zones,The standard-bearer of the years,Shall see the stars in ruin fall,Itself in ruin falling. He,The Ram, who, in the early spring,Restores the sails to the warming breeze,Shall headlong plunge into those wavesThrough which the trembling maid of GreeceHe bore of old. And Taurus, whoUpon his horns like a garland wearsThe Hyades, shall drag with himThe sacred Twins, and the stretched-out clawsOf the curving Crab. With heat inflamed,Alcides' Lion once againShall fall from heaven; the Virgin, too,Back to the earth she left shall fall;And the righteous Scales with their mighty weights,Shall drag in their fall the Scorpion.And he, old Chiron, skilled to holdUpon his bow of ThessalyThe feathered dart, shall lose his shaftsAnd break his bow. Cold Capricorn,Who ushers sluggish winter in,Shall fall from heaven, and break thy urn,Whoe'er thou art, O Waterman.And with thee shall the Fish departRemotest of the stars of heaven;And those monsters huge which never yetWere in the ocean plunged, shall soonWithin the all-engulfing seaBe swallowed up. And that huge Snake,Which like a winding river glidesBetween the Bears, shall fall from heaven;United with that serpent huge,The Lesser Bear, congealed with cold,And that slow driver of the WainNo longer stable in its course,Shall all in common ruin fall.Have we, of all the race of men,Been worthy deemed to be o'erwhelmedAnd buried 'neath a riven earth?Is this our age the end of all?Alas, in evil hour of fateWere we begotten, wretched still,Whether the sun is lost to usOr banished by our impious sins!But away with vain complaints and fear:Eager for life is he who would not die,Though all the world in death around him lie.