My sin no more polluteth, nor with hand
Unpurified before thy throne I stand.
A blunted edge, grief-worn and sanctified
By pain, where’er men traffic or abide,
On, on, o’er land and sea I have made my way,
True-purposed Loxias’ bidding to obey.
At last I have found thy House; thine image I
Clasp, and here wait thy judgement till I die. He throws himself down at the feet of the Statue, but no answer comes. Presently enter the Furies, following him.
Ha! Here he has passed. Spot reeketh upon spot.
Blood is a spy that points and babbles not.
Like hounds that follow some sore-wounded fawn,
We smell the way that blood and tears are gone,
And follow.—Oh, my belly gaspeth sore
With toils man-wasting; I can chase no more.
Through all the ways of the world I have shepherded
My lost sheep, and above the salt sea sped,
Wingless pursuing, swift as any sail.
And now ’tis here, meseemeth, he doth quail
And cower.—Aye, surely it is here; the smell
Of man’s blood laughs to meet me. All is well.
Searching.
Ha, search, search again!
Seek for him far and wide.
Shall this man fly or hide
And the unatonèd stain
Of his mother’s blood be vain?
Haha! Lo where he lies!
And comfort is in his eyes!
He hath made his arms a wreath
For the knees of the Deathless One,
And her judgement challengeth
On the deed his hands have done.
In vain! All in vain!
When blood on the earth is shed,
Blood of a mother dead,
Ye shall gather it not again.
’Tis wet, ’tis vanishèd,
Down in the dust like rain.
Thyself shalt yield instead,
Living, from every vein,
Thine own blood, rich and red,
For our parchèd mouths to drain,
Till my righteous heart be fed
With thy blood and thy bitter pain;
Till I waste thee like the dead,
And cast thee among the slain,
Till her wrong be comforted
And her wound no longer stain.
The Law thou then shalt see;
That whoso of men hath trod
In sin against these three,
Parent or Guest or God,22
That sin is unforgot,
And the payment faileth not.
There liveth, for every man,
Below, in the realm of Night,
A judge who straighteneth
The crooked; his name is Death.
All life his eye doth scan
And recordeth right.
I have known much evil, and have learnt therein23
What divers roads man goes to purge his sin,
And when to speak and when be dumb; and eke
In this thing a wise master bids me speak.
The blood upon this hand is fallen asleep
And fades. And though a sin be ne’er so deep
’Twill age with the aging years. When this of mine
Was fresh, on Phoebus’ hearth with blood of swine
’Twas washed and blurred. ’Twere a long tale since then,
To tell how I have spoke with many men
In scatheless parle. And now, with lips of grace,
Once more I pray the Lady of this place,
Athena, to mine aid. Let her but come;
Myself, mine Argive people and my home
Shall without war be hers, hers true of heart
And changeless. Therefore, wheresoe’er thou art,
In some far wilderness of Libyan earth,
By those Tritonid waters of thy birth;
Upgirt for deeds or veilèd on thy throne;
Or is it Phlegra’s field thou brood’st upon,24
Guiding the storm, like some bold Lord of War,
Oh, hear! A goddess heareth though afar:
Bring me deliverance in this mine hour! He waits expectant, but there is no answer.25
Not Lord Apollo’s, not Athena’s power
Shall reach thee any more. Forgot, forgot,
Thou reelest back to darkness, knowing not
Where in man’s heart joy dwelleth; without blood,
A shadow, flung to devils for their food!
Wilt answer not my word? Wilt spurn thereat,
Thou that art mine, born, doomed, and consecrate
My living feast, at no high altar slain?
Hark thou this song to bind thee like a chain!
As they move into position for the Dance.
Up, let us tread the dance, and wind—
The hour is come!—our shuddering spell.
Show how this Band apportions well
Their fated burdens to mankind.
Behold, we are righteous utterly.
The man whose hand is clean, no wrath
From us shall follow: down his path
He goeth from all evil free.
But whoso slays and hides withal
His red hand, swift before his eyes
True witness for the dead we rise:
We are with him to the end of all. Being now in position they begin the Binding Song.
Mother, who didst bear a being26
Dread to the eyeless and the seeing,
Night, my Mother!
Leto’s Child would wrong me, tear
From my clutch this trembling hare,
My doomèd prey: he bore to slay,
And shall he not the cleansing bear,
He, none other?
But our sacrifice to bind,
Lo, the music that we wind,
How it dazeth and amazeth
And the will it maketh blind,
As it moves without a lyre
To the throb of my desire;
’Tis a chain about the brain,
’Tis a wasting of mankind.
Thus hath Fate, through weal and woe,
For our Portion as we go
Spun the thread:
Whenso mortal man in sin
’Brueth hand against his kin,
Mine till death He wandereth,
And freedom never more shall win,
Not when dead.
But our sacrifice to bind,
Lo, the music that we wind,
How it dazeth and amazeth
And the will it maketh blind,
As it moves without a lyre
To the throb of my desire;
’Tis a chain about the brain,
’Tis a wasting of mankind.
Since the hour we were begot
Of this rite am I the priest;
Other gods may share it not;
Nor is any man nor beast
That dare eat the food we eat
Nor among us take his seat;
For no part have I nor lot
In the white robe and the feast.
For the tale I make mine own
Is of houses overthrown,
When the Foe within
