Mother of Hell blood-raging, which doth cry
On her own flesh war, war without alloy …
God! And she shouted in his face her joy,
Like men in battle when the foe doth break.
And feigns thanksgiving for his safety’s sake!
What if no man believe me? ’Tis all one.
The thing which must be shall be; aye, and soon
Thou too shalt sorrow for these things, and here
Standing confess me all too true a seer.
The Thyestean feast of children slain
I understood, and tremble. Aye, my brain
Reels at these visions, beyond guesswork true.
But after, though I heard, I had lost the clue.
Man, thou shalt look on Agamemnon dead.
Peace, Mouth of Evil! Be those words unsaid!
No god of peace hath watch upon that hour.
If it must come. Forefend it, Heavenly Power!
They do not think of prayer; they think of death.
They? Say, what man this foul deed compasseth?
Alas, thou art indeed fallen far astray!47
How could such deed be done? I see no way.
Yet know I not the Greek tongue all too well?
Greek are the Delphic dooms, but hard to spell.
Ah! Ah! There!
What a strange fire! It moves … It comes at me.
O Wolf Apollo, mercy! O agony! …
Why lies she with a wolf, this lioness lone,
Two-handed, when the royal lion is gone?
God, she will kill me! Like to them that brew
Poison, I see her mingle for me too
A separate vial in her wrath, and swear,
Whetting her blade for him, that I must share
His death … because, because he hath dragged me here!
Oh, why these mockers at my throat? This gear
Of wreathèd bands, this staff of prophecy?48
I mean to kill you first, before I die.
Begone! She tears off her prophetic habiliments; and presently throws them on the ground, and stamps on them. Down to perdition! … Lie ye so?
So I requite you! Now make rich in woe
Some other Bird of Evil, me no more! Coming to herself.
Ah, see! It is Apollo’s self, hath tore
His crown from me! Who watched me long ago
In this same prophet’s robe, by friend, by foe,
All with one voice, all blinded, mocked to scorn:
“A thing of dreams,” “a beggar-maid outworn,”
Poor, starving and reviled, I endured all;
And now the Seer, who called me till my call
Was perfect, leads me to this last dismay. …
’Tis not the altar-stone where men did slay
My father; ’tis a block, a block with gore
Yet hot, that waits me, of one slain before.
Yet not of God unheeded shall we lie.
There cometh after, one who lifteth high
The downfallen; a branch where blossometh
A sire’s avenging and a mother’s death.
Exiled and wandering, from this land outcast,
One day He shall return, and set the last
Crown on these sins that have his house downtrod.
For, lo, there is a great oath sworn of God,
His father’s upturned face shall guide him home.
Why should I grieve? Why pity these men’s doom?
I who have seen the City of Ilion
Pass as she passed; and they who cast her down
Have thus their end, as God gives judgement sure. …
I go to drink my cup. I will endure
To die. O Gates, Death-Gates, all hail to you!
Only, pray God the blow be stricken true!
Pray God, unagonized, with blood that flows
Quick unto friendly death, these eyes may close!
O full of sorrows, full of wisdom great,
Woman, thy speech is a long anguish; yet,
Knowing thy doom, why walkst thou with clear eyes,
Like some god-blinded beast, to sacrifice?
There is no escape, friends; only vain delay.
Is not the later still the sweeter day?
The day is come. Small profit now to fly.
Through all thy griefs, Woman, thy heart is high.
Alas! None that is happy hears that praise.
Are not the brave dead blest in after days?
O Father! O my brethren brave, I come! She moves towards the House, but recoils shuddering.
What frights thee? What is that thou startest from?
Ah, faugh! Faugh!
What turns thee in that blind
Horror? Unless some loathing of the mind …
Death drifting from the doors, and blood like rain!
’Tis but the dumb beasts at the altar slain.
And vapours from a charnel-house … See there!
’Tis Tyrian incense clouding in the air.
Recovering herself again.
So be it!—I will go, in yonder room
To weep mine own and Agamemnon’s doom.
May death be all! Strangers, I am no bird
That pipeth trembling at a thicket stirred
By the empty wind. Bear witness on that day
When woman for this woman’s life shall pay,
And man for man ill-mated low shall lie:
I ask this boon, as being about to die.
Alas, I pity thee thy mystic fate!
One word, one dirge-song would I utter yet
O’er mine own corpse. To this last shining Sun
I pray that, when the Avenger’s work is done,
His enemies may remember this thing too,
This little thing, the woman slave they slew!
O world of men, farewell! A painted show
Is all thy glory; and when life is low
The touch of a wet sponge out-blotteth all.
Oh, sadder this than any proud man’s fall! She goes into the House.
Great Fortune is an hungry thing,
And filleth no heart anywhere,
Though men with fingers menacing
Point at the great house, none will dare,
When Fortune knocks, to bar the door
Proclaiming: “Come thou here no more!”
Lo, to this man the Gods have given
Great Ilion in the dust to tread
And home return, emblazed of heaven;
If it is writ, he too shall go
Through blood for blood spilt long ago;
If he too, dying for the dead,
Should crown the deaths of alien years,
What mortal afar off, who hears,
Shall boast him Fortune’s Child, and led
Above the eternal tide of tears? A sudden Cry from within.49
Ho! Treason in the house! I am wounded: slain.
Hush! In the castle! ’Twas a cry
Of some
