Aeschylus Agamemnon 118

CHOROS.

Empowered am I to sing

The omens, what their force which, journeying,

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Rejoiced the potentates:

(For still, from God, inflates

My breast song-suasion: age,

Born to the business, still such war can wage)

— How the fierce bird against the Teukris land

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Despatched, with spear and executing hand,

The Achaian’s two-throned empery—o’er Hellas ’ youth

Two rulers with one mind:

The birds’ king to these kings of ships, on high,

— The black sort, and the sort that’s white behind, —

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Appearing by the palace, on the spear-throw side,

In right sky-regions, visible far and wide, —

Devouring a hare-creature, great with young,

Baulked of more racings they, as she from whom they sprung!

Ah, Linos, say — ah, Linos, song of wail!

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But may the good prevail!

The prudent army-prophet seeing two

The Atreidai, two their tempers, knew

Those feasting on the hare

The armament-conductors were;

And thus he spoke, explaining signs in view.

125

In time, this outset takes the town of Priamos:

But all before its towers, — the people’s wealth that was,

Of flocks and herds, — as sure, shall booty-sharing thence

Drain to the dregs away, by battle violence.

Only, have care lest grudge of any god disturb

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With cloud the unsullied shine of that great force, the curb

Of Troia , struck with damp

Beforehand in the camp!

For envyingly is

The virgin Artemis

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Toward — her father’s flying hounds — this House —

The sacrificers of the piteous

And cowering beast,

Brood and all, ere the birth: she hates the eagles’ feast.

Ah, Linos, say — ah, Linos, song of wail!

But may the good prevail!

Thus ready is the beauteous one with help

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To those small dewdrop-things fierce lions whelp,

And udder-loving litter of each brute

That roams the mead; and therefore makes she suit,

The fair one, for fulfilment to the end

Of things these signs portend —

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Which partly smile, indeed, but partly scowl —

The phantasms of the fowl.

I call Ieïos Paian to avert

She work the Danaoi hurt

By any thwarting waftures, long and fast

Holdings from sail of ships:

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And sacrifice, another than the last,

She for herself precipitate —

Something unlawful, feast for no man’s lips,

Builder of quarrels, with the House cognate —

Having in awe no husband: for remains

A frightful, backward-darting in the path,

Wily house-keeping chronicler of wrath,

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That has to punish that old children’s fate!

Such things did Kalchas, — with abundant gains

As well, — vociferate,

Predictions from the birds, in journeying,

Above the abode of either king.

With these, symphonious, sing —

Ah, Linos, say — ah, Linos, song of wail!

But may the good prevail!

Zeus, whosoe’er he be, — if that express

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Aught dear to him on whom I call —

So do I him address.

I cannot liken out, by all

Admeasurement of powers,

Any but Zeus for refuge at such hours,

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If veritably needs I must

From off my soul its vague care-burthen thrust.

Not — whosoever was the great of yore,

Bursting to bloom with bravery all round —

Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more.

And who it was that after came to be,

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Met the thrice-throwing wrestler, — he

Is also gone to ground.

But Zeus — if any, heart and soul, that name —

Shouting the triumph-praise — proclaim,

Complete in judgment shall that man be found.

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Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise,

Appoints that suffering masterfully teach.

In sleep, before the heart of each,

A woe-remembering travail sheds in dew

Discretion, — ay, and melts the unwilling too

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By what, perchance, may be a graciousness

Of gods, enforced no less, —

As they, commanders of the crew,

Assume the awful seat.

And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet,

Disparaging no seer —

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With bated breath to suit misfortune’s inrush here

— (What time it laboured, that Achaian host,

By stay from sailing, — every pulse at length

Emptied of vital strength, —

Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crost

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In Aulis station, — while the winds which post

From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught,

Tempters of man to sail where harbourage is naught,

Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning time

To twice the length, — these carded, by delay,

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To less and less away

The Argeians’ flowery prime:

And when a remedy more grave and grand

Than aught before, — yea, for the storm and dearth, —

The prophet to the foremost in command

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Shrieked forth, as cause of this

Adducing Artemis,

So that the Atreidai striking staves on earth

Could not withhold the tear) —

Then did the king, the elder, speak this clear.

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Heavy the fate, indeed, — to disobey!

Yet heavy if my child I slay,

The adornment of my household: with the tide

Of virgin-slaughter, at the altar-side,

A father’s hands defiling: which the way

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Without its evils, say?

How shall I turn fleet-fugitive,

Failing of duty to allies?

Since for a wind-abating sacrifice

And virgin blood, — ’t is right they strive,

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Nay, madden with desire.

Well may it work them — this that they require!

But when he underwent necessity’s

Yoke-trace, — from soul blowing unhallowed change

Unclean, abominable, — thence—another man —

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The audacious mind of him began

Its wildest range.

For this it is gives mortals hardihood —

Some vice-devising miserable mood

Of madness, and first woe of all the brood.

The sacrificer of his daughter — strange! —

He dared become, to expedite

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Woman-avenging warfare, — anchors weighed

With such prelusive rite!

Prayings and callings Father — naught they made

Of these, and of the virgin-age, —

Captains heart-set on war to wage!

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His ministrants, vows done, the father bade —

Kid-like, above the altar, swathed in pall,

Take her — lift high, and have no fear at all,

Head-downward, and the fair mouth’s guard

And frontage hold, — press hard

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From utterance a curse against the House

By dint of bit-violence bridling speech.

And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed,

She smote the sacrificers all and each

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With arrow sweet and piteous,

From the eye only sped, —

Significant of will to use a word,

Just as in pictures: since, full many a time,

In her sire’s guest-hall, by the well-heaped board

Had she made music, — lovingly with chime

Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,

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Honoured the third libation, — paian that should bring

Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.

What followed — those things I nor saw nor tell.

But Kalchas’ arts, — whate’er they indicate, —

Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate.

True, justice makes, in sufferers, a desire

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To know the future woe preponderate.

But — hear before is need?

To that, farewell and welcome! ’t is the same, indeed,

As grief beforehand: clearly, part for part,

Conformably to Kalchas’ art,

Shall come the event.

But be they as they may, things subsequent, —

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What is to do, prosperity betide

E’en as we wish it! — we, the next allied,

Sole guarding barrier of the Apian land.