A net … some net of Hell.
Nay, she that lies with him … is she the snare?
And half of his blood upon it. It holds well. …
O Crowd of ravening Voices, be glad, yea, shout
And cry for the stoning, cry for the casting out!
What Fury Voices call’st thou to be hot
Against this castle? Such words like me not.
And deep within my breast I felt that sick
And saffron drop, which creepeth to the heart
To die as the last rays of life depart.
Misfortune comes so quick.
Ah, look! Look! Keep his mate from the Wild Bull!
A tangle of raiment, see;
A black horn, and a blow, and he falleth, full
In the marble amid the water. I counsel ye.
I speak plain … Blood in the bath and treachery!
No great interpreter of oracles
Am I; but this, I think, some mischief spells.
What spring of good hath seercraft ever made
Up from the dark to flow?
’Tis but a weaving of words, a craft of woe,
To make mankind afraid.
Poor woman! Poor dead woman! … Yea, it is I,
Poured out like water among them. Weep for me. …
Ah! What is this place? Why must I come with thee. …
To die, only to die?
Thou art borne on the breath of God, thou spirit wild,
For thine own weird to wail,
Like to that wingèd voice, that heart so sore
Which, crying alway, hungereth to cry more,
“Itylus, Itylus,” till it sing her child
Back to the nightingale.
Oh, happy Singing Bird, so sweet, so clear!
Soft wings for her God made,
And an easy passing, without pain or tear …
For me ’twill be torn flesh and rending blade.
Whence is it sprung, whence wafted on God’s breath,
This anguish reasonless?
This throbbing of terror shaped to melody,
Moaning of evil blent with music high?
Who hath marked out for thee that mystic path
Through thy woe’s wilderness?
Alas for the kiss, the kiss of Paris, his people’s bane!
Alas for Scamander Water, the water my fathers drank!
Long, long ago, I played about thy bank,
And was cherished and grew strong;
Now by a River of Wailing, by shores of Pain,
Soon shall I make my song.
How sayst thou? All too clear,
This ill word thou hast laid upon thy mouth!
A babe could read thee plain.
It stabs within me like a serpent’s tooth,
The bitter thrilling music of her pain:
I marvel as I hear.
Alas for the toil, the toil of a City, worn unto death!
Alas for my father’s worship before the citadel,
The flocks that bled and the tumult of their breath!
But no help from them came
To save Troy Towers from falling as they fell! …
And I on the earth shall writhe, my heart aflame.
Dark upon dark, new ominous words of ill!
Sure there hath swept on thee some Evil Thing,
Crushing, which makes thee bleed
And in the torment of thy vision sing
These plaining death-fraught oracles … Yet still, still,
Their end I cannot read!
By an effort she regains mastery of herself, and speaks directly to the Leader.
’Fore God, mine oracle shall no more hide
With veils his visage, like a new-wed bride!
A shining wind out of this dark shall blow,
Piercing the dawn, growing as great waves grow,
To burst in the heart of sunrise … stronger far
Than this poor pain of mine. I will not mar
With mists my wisdom. Be near me as I go,
Tracking the evil things of long ago,
And bear me witness. For this roof, there clings
Music about it, like a choir which sings
One-voiced, but not well-sounding, for not good
The words are. Drunken, drunken, and with blood,
To make them dare the more, a revelling rout
Is in the rooms, which no man shall cast out,
Of sister Furies. And they weave to song,
Haunting the House, its first blind deed of wrong,
Spurning in turn that King’s bed desecrate,
Defiled, which paid a brother’s sin with hate. …
Hath it missed or struck, mine arrow? Am I a poor
Dreamer, that begs and babbles at the door?
Give first thine oath in witness, that I know
Of this great dome the sins wrought long ago.
And how should oath of mine, though bravely sworn,
Appease thee? Yet I marvel that one born
Far over seas, of alien speech, should fall
So apt, as though she had lived here and seen all.
The Seer Apollo made me too to see.
In a low voice.
Was the God’s heart pierced with desire for thee?
Time was, I held it shame hereof to speak.
Ah, shame is for the mighty, not the weak.
We wrestled, and his breath to me was sweet.
Ye came to the getting of children, as is meet?
I swore to Loxias, and I swore a lie.
Already thine the gift of prophecy?
Already I showed my people all their path.
And Loxias did not smite thee in his wrath?
After that sin … no man believed me more.
Nay, then, to us thy wisdom seemeth sure.
Oh, oh! Agony, agony!
Again the awful pains of prophecy
Are on me, maddening as they fall. …
Ye see them there … beating against the wall?
So young … like shapes that gather in a dream …
Slain by a hand they loved. Children they seem,
Murdered … and in their hands they bear baked meat:
I think it is themselves. Yea, flesh; I see it;
And inward parts. … Oh, what a horrible load
To carry! And their father drank their blood.
From these, I warn ye, vengeance broodeth still,
A lion’s rage, which goes not forth to kill
But lurketh in his lair, watching the high
Hall of my war-gone master … Master? Aye;
Mine, mine! The yoke is nailed about my neck. …
Oh, lord of ships and trampler on the wreck
Of Ilion, knows he not this she-wolf’s tongue,
Which licks and fawns, and laughs with ear up-sprung,
To bite in the end like secret death?—And can
The woman? Slay a strong and armèd man? …
What fangèd reptile like to her doth creep?
Some serpent amphisbene, some Skylla, deep
Housed in
