CHOROS.
The omens, what their force which, journeying,
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(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
’ 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.
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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
Toward — her father’s flying hounds — this House —
The sacrificers of the piteous
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
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
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, 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,
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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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
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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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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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
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,
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.
