He passed Athena’s wave-worn promontories,
In haste this great Parnassus to possess
And Delphi, thronèd in the wilderness.
And with him came, to escort him and revere,
A folk born of Hephaistos, pioneer
Of God’s way, making sweet a bitter land.
And much this people and the King whose hand
Then steered them, Delphos, glorified his name,
Till Zeus into his heart put mystic flame
And prophet here enthroned him, fourth in use:
So Loxias’ lips reveal the thought of Zeus.7
These gods be foremost in all prayers of mine,
Who have held the Throne. Next, She before the shrine,
Pallas, is praisèd, and the Nymphs who keep
Yon old Corycian bird-belovèd steep,
Deep-caverned, where things blessèd come and go.
And Bromios walks the mountain, well I know,
Since first he led his Maenad host on high
And doomed King Pentheus like a hare to die.8
And Pleistos’ fountains and Poseidon’s power
I call, and Him who brings the Perfect Hour,
Zeus, the Most Highest. With which prayers I go
To seat me, priestess, on the Throne. And, oh,
May God send blessing on mine entrance, more
And deeper than He e’er hath sent of yore!
If there be present men of Greece but not
Of Delphi, let them enter as the lot
Ordains; I speak but as God leadeth me. She enters the Inner Shrine, and the stage is for a moment empty. Then she returns, grasping at the wall for support.
Ah! Horrors, horrors, dire to speak or see,
From Loxias’ chamber drive me reeling back.
My knees are weak beneath me, and I lack
The strength to fly. … O hands, drag me from here
If feet fail! … An old woman, and in fear,
A thing of naught, a babe in helplessness!
I made my way into the Holy Place,
And there, at the inmost Altar of the world,
A man abhorred of God, his body hurled
Earthward in desperate prayer; blood on his hand9
Yet reeking, and a naked new-drawn brand
Wreathed in beseeching wool, a suppliant’s weed
Of snow-white fleece … so much mine eyes could read.
But out in front of him a rout unknown
Of women sleepeth, flung from throne to throne.
Women? Nay, never women! Gorgons more:
And yet not like the Gorgon shapes of yore. …10
I saw a picture once of woman things
That ravished Phineus’ banquet. But no wings
Have these; all shadows, black, abominable.
The voices of their slumber rise and swell,
Back-beating, and their eyes drop gouts of gore.
Their garb, it is no garb to show before
God’s altar nor the hearths of human kind.
I cannot read what lineage lies behind
These shapes, nor what land, having born such breed,
Hath trembled not before and shall not bleed
Hereafter. Let Apollo great in power
Take to his care the peril of this hour:
Being Helper, Prophet, Seer of things unseen,
The stainèd hearth he knoweth to make clean. The Prophetess departs. The doors open and reveal the inner shrine, Orestes at the Altar, the Furies asleep about him, and Apollo standing over them.11
I fail thee not. For ever more I stay,
Or watching at thy side or far away,
Thy guard, and iron against thine enemies.
Even now my snares have closèd upon these,
The ragers sleep: the Virgins without love,
So grey, so old, whom never god above
Hath kissed, nor man, nor from the wilderness
One wild beast. They were born for wickedness
And sorrow;12 for in evil night they dwell,
And feed on the great darkness that is Hell,
Most hated by the Gods and human thought.
But none the less, fly thou and falter not.
For these shall hunt thee, ever on through earth
Unwandered, through the vast lands of the North,
The sea-ways and the cities ringed with sea.
But faint not. Clasp thy travail unto thee;
On till thou come to Pallas’ Rock,13 and fold
Thine arms in prayer about her image old.
In Athens there be hearts to judge, there be
Words that bring peace; and I shall set thee free
At last from all this woe.—If thou didst kill
Thy mother, was it not my word and will?
Not to betray thou knowest. Oh, ponder yet
One other lesson, Lord—not to forget!
Thy strength in doing can be trusted well. Orestes departs.
Remember! Let no fear thy spirit quell!
Do thou, O Hermes, brother of my blood,
Watch over him. Thou guide of man, make good
The name thou bearest, shepherding again
My suppliant. Him who pitieth suffering men
Zeus pitieth,14 and his ways are sweet on earth. Exit Apollo. Presently enter the Ghost of Clytemnestra. She watches the sleeping Furies.
Ye sleep. O God, and what are sleepers worth?
’Tis you, have left me among all the dead
Dishonoured. Alway, for that blood I shed,
Rebuke and hissing cease not, and I go
Wandering in shame. Oh, hear! … For that old blow
I struck still I am hated, but for his
Who smote me, being of my blood, there is
No wrath in all the darkness: there is none
Cares for a mother murdered by her son.
Open thine heart to see this gash!—She shows the wound in her throat. In sleep
The heart hath many eyes and can see deep:
’Tis daylight makes man’s fate invisible.
Oft of my bounty ye have lapt your fill;
Oft the sad peace of wineless cups to earth
I have poured, and midmurk feastings on your hearth
Burned, when no other god draws near to eat.
And all these things ye have cast beneath your feet,
And he is fled, fled lightly like a fawn
Out of your nets! With mocking he is gone
And twisting of the lips. … I charge you, hark!
This is my life, my death. Oh, shake the dark
From off you, Children of the Deep. ’Tis I,
Your dream, I, Clytemnestra, stand and cry. Moaning among the Furies.
Moan on, but he is vanished and forgot.
So strong the prayers of them that love me not! Moaning.
Too sound ye sleep.—And have ye for the dead
No pity? … And my son, my murderer, fled! Groaning.
Ye groan; ye slumber. Wake! … What task have ye
To do on earth save to work misery? Groaning.
Can sleep and weariness so well conspire
To drain the fell she-dragon of her fire?
