Slays a brother and is flown:
Up and after him, Io!
While the blood is still a-flow,
Though his strength be full and swelling,
We shall waste him, flesh from bone!
Would they take thee from the care
We have guarded thee withal?
Would the Gods disown our prayer
Till no Law be left at all?
Yea, because of blood that drips
As aforetime from our lips,
And the world’s hate that we bear,
God hath cast us from His hall!
I am on them as they fly,
With a voice out of the sky,
And my armèd heel is o’er them
To fall crashing from on high.
There be fliers far and fast,
But I trip them at the last,
And my arms are there before them,
And shall crush them ere they die!
—The glories of Man that were proud where the sunlight came,
Below in the dark are wasted and cast to shame;
For he trembles at the hearing
Of the Black Garments nearing,
And the beating of the feet, like flame
—He falls and knows not; the blow hath made blind his eyes;
And above hangs Sin, as a darkening of the skies,
And a great voice swelling
Like a mist about his dwelling,
And sobbing in the mist and cries.
—For so it abideth: subtle are we to plan,
Sure to fulfil, and forget not any Sin;
And Venerable they call us, but none can win
Our pardon for child of man.
Unhonoured and undesired though our kingdom be,
Where the sun is dead and no god in all the skies,
Great crags and trackless, alike for them that see,
And them of the wasted eyes;
—What mortal man but quaketh before my power,
And boweth in worship to hear my rule of doom,
God-given of old, fate-woven on the ageless loom
And ripe to the perfect hour?
To the end of all abideth mine ancient Right,
Whose word shall be never broke nor its deed undone,
Though my seat is below the Grave, in the place where sight
Fails and there is no Sun.
Far off I heard the calling of my name,
Beside Scamander, where I took in claim
The new land which the Achaean lords and kings,28
In royal spoil for many warfarings,
Gave, root and fruit for ever, as mine own
Exempted prize, to Theseus’ sons alone.
Thence came I speeding, while behind me rolled
My wingless aegis, floating fold on fold.29
But these strange visitants … I tremble not
Beholding, yet I marvel. Who and what
Are ye? I speak to all. And who is he
Who round mine image clings so desperately?
But ye are like no earth-seed ever sown,
No goddess-shape that Heaven hath looked upon,
Nor any semblance borne of human kind …
Howbeit, ye have not wronged me. I were blind
To right and custom did I speak you ill.
Virgin of God most high, have all thy will.30
Still-weeping Night knows us the brood she bears;
The wronged ones in the darkness call us Prayers.
I know your lineage and the names ye hold.
Our office and our lot can soon be told.
Make clear thy word, that all be understood.
We hunt from home the shedder of man’s blood.
What end appoint ye to that flight of his?
A land where none remembereth what joy is.
And such a chase on this man thou wilt cry?
Who dared to be his mother’s murderer, aye,
What goaded him? Some fear, some unseen wrath?
What goad could drive a man on such a path?
Looking at Orestes.
Why speaketh one alone, when two are there?
He will not swear, nor challenge me to swear.
Which wouldst thou, to seem righteous, or to be?
What meanst thou there? Speak out thy subtlety.
Let no bare oath the deeper right subdue.
Try thou the cause, then, and give judgement true.
Ye trust me this whole issue to decide?
Who would not trust thee? True thou art and tried.
Turning to Orestes.
Strange man, and what in turn hast thou to advance?
Thy land and lineage, and thy long mischance
Show first, then make thine answer to their laws.
If truly in the justice of thy cause
Trusting, thou clingest here in need so dire
To mine own shape, hard by my deathless fire,
In fearful prayer, as lost Ixion prayed,
Make to all these thine answer unafraid.
Most high Athena, let me from the last
Of these thy questionings one fear outcast.
Pollution is not in me, nor with hand
Blood-reeking cleave I to thine altar-strand;
In sign whereof, behold, I have cast away
That silence which the man of blood alway
Observeth, till some hand, that hath the power
To cleanse the sins of man, new blood shall shower
Of swine upon him, drowning the old stain.
I have been cleansed again and yet again
In others’ dwellings, both by blood that fell
And running rivers that have washed me well.
Be that care then forgot. My name and birth
Are quickly told. I am sprung of Argive earth;
My father’s name was known upon thy lips,
Agamemnon, marshal of a thousand ships,
With whom thou madest Troy, that city of pride,
No more a city. He returning died,
Not kingly. ’Twas my mother black of heart
Met him and murdered, snaring him with art
Of spangled webs. … Alas, that robe of wrath,
That cried to heaven the blood-stain of the bath!
Then came long exile; then, returning, I
Struck dead my mother. Nought will I deny;
So, for my sire belovèd, death met death.
And Loxias in these doings meriteth
His portion, who foretold strange agonies
To spur me if I left unsmitten these
That slew him. … Take me thou, and judge if ill
I wrought or righteously. I will be still
And praise thy judgement, whatsoe’er betide.
This is a mystery graver to decide
Than mortal dreameth.31 Nor for me ’twere good
To sift the passionate punishments of blood.
Since thou hast cast
