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CLYTEMNESTRA
Though much to suit the times before was said,
It shames me not the opposite to speak :
For, plotting against foes,—our seeming friends,-
How else contrive with Ruin's wily snare.
Too high to overleap, to fence them round?
To me, not mindless of an ancient feud,
Hath come at last this contest ;-late indeed.
The deed achieved, here stand I, where I slew.
So was it wrought (and this I'll not deny),
That he could neither 'scape, nor ward his doom;
Around him, like a fish-encircling net,
This garment’s deadly splendour did I cast ;—
Him twice I smote, and he, with twofold groan,
His limbs relaxed ;—then, prostrate where he lay,
Him with third blow I dowered, votive gift
To nether Hades, saviour of the dead.
Thus as he fell he chafed his soul away;
And gurgling forth the swift death-tide of blood,
He smites me with black drops of gory dew,
Not less exultant than, with heaven-sent joy
The corn-sown land, in birth-hour of the ear.
For this great issue, Argive Senators,
Joy ye, if joy ye can, but I exult.
Nay, o'er the slain were off'rings meet, with right
Here were they poured,—with emphasis of right.
Such goblet having filled with cursèd ills
At home,-himself on his return drains off.
Though much to suit the times before was said,
It shames me not the opposite to speak :
For, plotting against foes,—our seeming friends,-
How else contrive with Ruin's wily snare.
Too high to overleap, to fence them round?
To me, not mindless of an ancient feud,
Hath come at last this contest ;-late indeed.
The deed achieved, here stand I, where I slew.
So was it wrought (and this I'll not deny),
That he could neither 'scape, nor ward his doom;
Around him, like a fish-encircling net,
This garment’s deadly splendour did I cast ;—
Him twice I smote, and he, with twofold groan,
His limbs relaxed ;—then, prostrate where he lay,
Him with third blow I dowered, votive gift
To nether Hades, saviour of the dead.
Thus as he fell he chafed his soul away;
And gurgling forth the swift death-tide of blood,
He smites me with black drops of gory dew,
Not less exultant than, with heaven-sent joy
The corn-sown land, in birth-hour of the ear.
For this great issue, Argive Senators,
Joy ye, if joy ye can, but I exult.
Nay, o'er the slain were off'rings meet, with right
Here were they poured,—with emphasis of right.
Such goblet having filled with cursèd ills
At home,-himself on his return drains off.
Agamemnon. Aeschylus. Anna Swanwick (Translator). London. 1886.
Sponsored by University of Leipzig.
Funding provided by European Social Fund Saxony.