It tells me that thy sire who whilom led
The Greeks to victory hath not forgot;
Yea, and that axe with double brazen head
Still thirsts for blood to wipe away its blot.
Antistrophe
So leaping from her ambush, brazen-shod,
Comes the Erinys with an armed host’s tread,
For she hath seen a pair who knew not God
Driven by lust to an adulterous bed,
A bed with stains of murder dyed,
A bridal without groom or bride.
Therefore I know that not in vain is sent
This portent that the fall of guilt foretells,
For, if this vision fails of its intent,
Vain is all sooth, all dreams, all oracles.
O chariot-race of Pelops old,
The source of sorrows manifold,
What endless curse hath fallen on us
Since to his sea-grave Myrtilus4
Sank from the golden chariot hurled;
Woe upon woe, of woes a world.
So once again I find thee here at large,
For he who kept thee close and so restrained
Thy scandalous tongue, Aegisthus, is away;
Yet thy complaints, repeated many a time
To many, censured my tyrannic rule—
The insults that I heaped on thee and thine.
Was it an insult if I paid in kind
The flouts and taunts wherewith thou girdest at me?
Thy father, the sole pretext of thy grief,
Died by my hand, aye mine, I know it well,
’Tis true beyond denial; yet not I,
Not I alone, but Justice slew him too:
And thou shouldst side with Justice, wert thou wise.
This sire of thine for whom thy tears still flow
Alone of all the Greeks could steel his heart
To yield thy sister as a sacrifice;
A father who begat her and ne’er felt
A mother’s pangs of travail. Tell me now
Wherefore he offered her, on whose behalf?
The Greeks, thou sayest. And what right had they
To kill my child? For Menelaus’ sake,
His brother? Should such pretext stay my hand?
Had not his brother children twain to serve
As victims? Should not they, as born of sire
And mother for whose sake the host embarked,
Have been preferred before my innocent child?
Had Death forsooth some craving for my child
Rather than hers? or had the wretch, her sire,
A tender heart for Menelaus’ brood,
And for my flesh and blood no tenderness?
That choice was for a father rash and base;
So, though I differ from thee, I opine,
And could the dead maid speak, she would agree.
I therefore view the past without remorse,
And if to thee I seem perverted, clear
Thy judgment ere thou makst thyself a judge.
This time thou canst not say that I began
The quarrel or provoked thee. But if thou
Wilt give me leave, I fain would speak the truth
Regarding both my sister and my sire.
My leave is given, and, hadst thou always shown
This temper, I had listened without pain.
Hear then. Thou say’st, “I slew thy father.” Who
Could well avow a blacker crime than that?
Justly or not, what matters? But I’ll prove
There was no justice in it; ’twas the lure
Of a vile wretch that hurried thee along—
Thy lover’s. Ask the Huntress Artemis
For what offence she prisoned every gust
That blows at Aulis; rather, as from her
Thou mayst not win an answer, I will tell thee.
My father once—so have I heard the tale—
Taking his pleasure in her sacred glade
Started an antlered stag with dappled hide,
Shot it, and shooting made some careless vaunt.
Latona’s daughter, wroth thereat, detained
The Achaeans, that in quittance for her hart
My sire might give his daughter, life for life.
And so it came to pass that she was slain:
The fleet becalmed no other way could win
Homeward or Troyward. For that cause alone
Reluctantly, by hard constraint, at last
He slew her, no wise for his brother’s sake.
But if, as thou interpretest the deed,
’Twas done to please his brother, even thus
Should he for that have died by hand of thine?
What law is this? In laying down such law
See that against thyself thou lay not up
Dire retribution; for if blood for blood
Be justice, thou wouldst justly die the first.
Look, if thy pleading be not all a lie.
Say, if thou wilt, why thou art living now
A life of shame as partner of his bed,
The wretch who aided thee to slay my sire,
Bearing him children, casting out for them
The rightful heirs in rightful wedlock born.
Can I approve such acts? Or wilt thou say
This too was vengeance for a daughter’s blood?
A shameful plea, if urged, for shame it is
To wed a foeman for a daughter’s sake.
But in convincing thee I waste my breath;
Thou hast no answer but to scream that I
Revile a mother; and in sooth to us
Thou art mistress more than mother, for I pine
A wretched drudge, by thee and by thy mate
Downtrodden; and that other child who scarce
Escaped thy hands, Orestes, wears away
In weary exile his unhappy days.
Oft hast thou taxed me that I reared him up
For vengeance; so I willed it, had I power.
Go to, proclaim me out of my own mouth
A shrew, a scold, a vixen—what thou wilt.
For if I be accomplished in such arts,
Methinks I show my breed, a trick o’ the blood.
I see she breathes forth fury and no more
Heeds if her words with justice harmonize.
Why then should I heed one who thus insults
A mother, at her ripe age too? Dost think
That she would stick at any deed of shame?
Nay, I am shamefast, though to thee I seem
Shameless; I know such manners in a maid
Are ill-becoming, in a daughter strange;
But thy malignity, thy cruel acts
Compel me; baseness is from baseness learnt.
Thou brazen monster! I, my words, my acts,
Are matter for thy glib garrulity!
The fault is thine, not mine; for thine the acts,
And mine are but the words that show them forth.
Now, by our lady Artemis, thou shalt rue
Thy boldness when Aegisthus comes again.
See, rage distracts thee; first thou grantest me
Free speech, and wilt not listen when I speak.
I let thee have thy say, and wilt not thou
Hush thy wild tongue and let me sacrifice?
Go, I adjure thee, sacrifice; nor blame
My voice; henceforth I shall not speak one word.
