Part 2

One there was who reigned of old, Big with wrath to brave and blast, Lo, his name is no more told! And who followed met at last His Third-thrower, and is gone. Only they whose hearts have known Zeus, the Conqueror and the Friend, They shall win their vision’s end;

Zeus the Guide, who made man turn Thought-ward, Zeus, who did ordain Man by Suffering shall Learn. So the heart of him, again Aching with remembered pain, Bleeds and sleepeth not, until Wisdom comes against his will. ’Tis the gift of One by strife Lifted to the throne of life.

(AGAMEMNON _accepted the sign. Then came long delay, and storm while the fleet lay at Aulis._)

So that day the Elder Lord, Marshal of the Achaian ships, Strove not with the prophet’s word, Bowed him to his fate’s eclipse, When with empty jars and lips Parched and seas impassable Fate on that Greek army fell, Fronting Chalcis as it lay, By Aulis in the swirling bay.

(_Till at last Calchas answered that Artemis was wroth and demanded the death of_ AGAMEMNON’S _daughter. The King’s doubt and grief_.)

And winds, winds blew from Strymon River, Unharboured, starving, winds of waste endeavour, Man-blinding, pitiless to cord and bulwark, And the waste of days was made long, more long, Till the flower of Argos was aghast and withered; Then through the storm rose the War-seer’s song, And told of medicine that should tame the tempest, But bow the Princes to a direr wrong. Then “Artemis” he whispered, he named the name; And the brother Kings they shook in the hearts of them, And smote on the earth their staves, and the tears came.

But the King, the elder, hath found voice and spoken: “A heavy doom, sure, if God’s will were broken; But to slay mine own child, who my house delighteth, Is that not heavy? That her blood should flow On her father’s hand, hard beside an altar? My path is sorrow wheresoe’er I go. Shall Agamemnon fail his ships and people, And the hosts of Hellas melt as melts the snow? They cry, they thirst, for a death that shall break the spell, For a Virgin’s blood: ’tis a rite of old, men tell. And they burn with longing.—O God may the end be well!”

(_But ambition drove him, till he consented to the sin of slaying his daughter, Iphigenia, as a sacrifice._)

To the yoke of Must-Be he bowed him slowly, And a strange wind within his bosom tossed, A wind of dark thought, unclean, unholy; And he rose up, daring to the uttermost. For men are boldened by a Blindness, straying Toward base desire, which brings grief hereafter, Yea, and itself is grief; So this man hardened to his own child’s slaying, As help to avenge him for a woman’s laughter And bring his ships relief!

Her “Father, Father,” her sad cry that lingered, Her virgin heart’s breath they held all as naught, Those bronze-clad witnesses and battle-hungered; And there they prayed, and when the prayer was wrought He charged the young men to uplift and bind her, As ye lift a wild kid, high above the altar, Fierce-huddling forward, fallen, clinging sore To the robe that wrapt her; yea, he bids them hinder The sweet mouth’s utterance, the cries that falter, —His curse for evermore!—

With violence and a curb’s voiceless wrath. Her stole of saffron then to the ground she threw, And her eye with an arrow of pity found its path To each man’s heart that slew: A face in a picture, striving amazedly; The little maid who danced at her father’s board, The innocent voice man’s love came never nigh, Who joined to his her little paean-cry When the third cup was poured….

What came thereafter I saw not neither tell. But the craft of Calchas failed not.—’Tis written, He Who Suffereth Shall Learn; the law holdeth well. And that which is to be, Ye will know at last; why weep before the hour? For come it shall, as out of darkness dawn. Only may good from all this evil flower; So prays this Heart of Argos, this frail tower Guarding the land alone.

[_As they cease,_ CLYTEMNESTRA _comes from the Palace with Attendants. She has finished her prayer and sacrifice, and is now wrought up to face the meeting with her husband. The Leader approaches her_.]

LEADER. Before thy state, O Queen, I bow mine eyes. ’Tis written, when the man’s throne empty lies, The woman shall be honoured.—Hast thou heard Some tiding sure? Or is it Hope, hath stirred To fire these altars? Dearly though we seek To learn, ’tis thine to speak or not to speak.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Glad-voiced, the old saw telleth, comes this morn, The Star-child of a dancing midnight born, And beareth to thine ear a word of joy Beyond all hope: the Greek hath taken Troy.

LEADER. How? Thy word flies past me, being incredible.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Ilion is ours. No riddling tale I tell.

LEADER. Such joy comes knocking at the gate of tears.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Aye, ’tis a faithful heart that eye declares.

LEADER. What warrant hast thou? Is there proof of this?

CLYTEMNESTRA. There is; unless a God hath lied there is.

LEADER. Some dream-shape came to thee in speaking guise?

CLYTEMNESTRA. Who deemeth me a dupe of drowsing eyes?

LEADER. Some word within that hovereth without wings?

CLYTEMNESTRA. Am I a child to hearken to such things?

LEADER. Troy fallen?—But how long? When fell she, say?

CLYTEMNESTRA. The very night that mothered this new day.

LEADER. And who of heralds with such fury came?

CLYTEMNESTRA. A Fire-god, from Mount Ida scattering flame. Whence starting, beacon after beacon burst In flaming message hitherward. Ida first Told Hermes’ Lemnian Rock, whose answering sign Was caught by towering Athos, the divine, With pines immense—yea, fishes of the night Swam skyward, drunken with that leaping light, Which swelled like some strange sun, till dim and far Makistos’ watchmen marked a glimmering star; They, nowise loath nor idly slumber-won, Spring up to hurl the fiery message on, And a far light beyond the Eurîpus tells That word hath reached Messapion’s sentinels. They beaconed back, then onward with a high Heap of dead heather flaming to the sky. And onward still, not failing nor aswoon, Across the Asôpus like a beaming moon The great word leapt, and on Kithairon’s height Uproused a new relay of racing light. His watchers knew the wandering flame, nor hid Their welcome, burning higher than was bid. Out over Lake Gorgôpis then it floats, To Aigiplanctos, waking the wild goats, Crying for “Fire, more Fire!” And fire was reared, Stintless and high, a stormy streaming beard, That waved in flame beyond the promontory Rock-ridged, that watches the Saronian sea, Kindling the night: then one short swoop to catch The Spider’s Crag, our city’s tower of watch; Whence hither to the Atreidae’s roof it came, A light true-fathered of Idaean flame. Torch-bearer after torch-bearer, behold The tale thereof in stations manifold, Each one by each made perfect ere it passed, And Victory in the first as in the last. These be my proofs and tokens that my lord From Troy hath spoke to me a burning word.

LEADER. Woman, speak on. Hereafter shall my prayer Be raised to God; now let me only hear, Again and full, the marvel and the joy.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Now, even now, the Achaian holdeth Troy! Methinks there is a crying in her streets That makes no concord. When sweet unguent meets With vinegar in one phial, I warrant none Shall lay those wranglers lovingly at one. So conquerors and conquered shalt thou hear, Two sundered tones, two lives of joy or fear. Here women in the dust about their slain, Husbands or brethren, and by dead old men Pale children who shall never more be free, For all they loved on earth cry desolately. And hard beside them war-stained Greeks, whom stark Battle and then long searching through the dark Hath gathered, ravenous, in the dawn, to feast At last on all the plenty Troy possessed, No portion in that feast nor ordinance, But each man clutching at the prize of chance. Aye, there at last under good roofs they lie Of men spear-quelled, no frosts beneath the sky, No watches more, no bitter moony dew…. How blessèd they will sleep the whole night through! Oh, if these days they keep them free from sin Toward Ilion’s conquered shrines and Them within Who watch unconquered, maybe not again The smiter shall be smit, the taker ta’en. May God but grant there fall not on that host The greed of gold that maddeneth and the lust To spoil inviolate things! But half the race Is run which windeth back to home and peace. Yea, though of God they pass unchallengèd, Methinks the wound of all those desolate dead Might waken, groping for its will…. Ye hear A woman’s word, belike a woman’s fear. May good but conquer in the last incline Of the balance! Of all prayers that prayer is mine.

LEADER. O Woman, like a man faithful and wise Thou speakest. I accept thy testimonies And turn to God with praising, for a gain Is won this day that pays for all our pain.

[CLYTEMNESTRA _returns to the Palace. The_ CHORUS _take up their position for the Second Stasimon._]

AN ELDER. O Zeus, All-ruler, and Night the Aid, Gainer of glories, and hast thou thrown Over the towers of Ilion Thy net close-laid, That none so nimble and none so tall Shall escape withal The snare of the slaver that claspeth all?

ANOTHER. And Zeus the Watcher of Friend and Friend I also praise, who hath wrought this end. Long since on Paris his shaft he drew, And hath aimèd true, Not too soon falling nor yet too far, The fire of the avenging star.

CHORUS. (_This is God’s judgement upon Troy. May it not be too fierce! Gold cannot save one who spurneth Justice_.)

The stroke of Zeus hath found them! Clear this day The tale, and plain to trace. He judged, and Troy hath fallen.—And have men said That God not deigns to mark man’s hardihead, Trampling to earth the grace Of holy and delicate things?—Sin lies that way. For visibly Pride doth breed its own return On prideful men, who, when their houses swell With happy wealth, breathe ever wrath and blood. Yet not too fierce let the due vengeance burn; Only as deemeth well One wise of mood.

Never shall state nor gold Shelter his heart from aching Whoso the Altar of Justice old Spurneth to Night unwaking.

(_The Sinner suffers in his longing till at last Temptation overcomes him; as longing for Helen overcame Paris._)

The tempting of misery forceth him, the dread Child of fore-scheming Woe! And help is vain; the fell desire within Is veilèd not, but shineth bright like Sin: And as false gold will show Black where the touchstone trieth, so doth fade His honour in God’s ordeal. Like a child, Forgetting all, he hath chased his wingèd bird, And planted amid his people a sharp thorn. And no God hears his prayer, or, have they heard, The man so base-beguiled They cast to scorn.

Paris to Argos came; Love of a woman led him; So God’s altar he brought to shame, Robbing the hand that fed him.

(_Helen’s flight; the visions seen by the King’s seers; the phantom of Helen and the King’s grief._)

She hath left among her people a noise of shield and sword, A tramp of men armed where the long ships are moored; She hath ta’en in her goings Desolation as a dower; She hath stept, stept quickly, through the great gated Tower, And the thing that could not be, it hath been! And the Seers they saw visions, and they spoke of strange ill: “A Palace, a Palace; and a great King thereof: A bed, a bed empty, that was once pressed in love: And thou, thou, what art thou? Let us be, thou so still, Beyond wrath, beyond beseeching, to the lips reft of thee!” For she whom he desireth is beyond the deep sea, And a ghost in his castle shall be queen.

Images in sweet guise Carven shall move him never, Where is Love amid empty eyes? Gone, gone for ever!

(_His dreams and his suffering; but the War that he made caused greater and wider suffering._)

But a shape that is a dream, ’mid the phantoms of the night, Cometh near, full of tears, bringing vain vain delight: For in vain when, desiring, he can feel the joy’s breath —Nevermore! Nevermore!—from his arms it vanisheth, On wings down the pathways of sleep.

In the mid castle hall, on the hearthstone of the Kings, These griefs there be, and griefs passing these, But in each man’s dwelling of the host that sailed the seas, A sad woman waits; she has thoughts of many things, And patience in her heart lieth deep.

Knoweth she them she sent, Knoweth she? Lo, returning, Comes in stead of the man that went Armour and dust of burning.

(_The return of the funeral urns; the murmurs of the People._)

And the gold-changer, Ares, who changeth quick for dead, Who poiseth his scale in the striving of the spears, Back from Troy sendeth dust, heavy dust, wet with tears, Sendeth ashes with men’s names in his urns neatly spread. And they weep over the men, and they praise them one by one, How this was a wise fighter, and this nobly-slain— “Fighting to win back another’s wife!” Till a murmur is begun, And there steals an angry pain Against Kings too forward in the strife.

There by Ilion’s gate Many a soldier sleepeth, Young men beautiful; fast in hate Troy her conqueror keepeth.

(_For the Shedder of Blood is in great peril, and not unmarked by God. May I never be a Sacker of Cities!_)

But the rumour of the People, it is heavy, it is chill; And tho’ no curse be spoken, like a curse doth it brood; And my heart waits some tiding which the dark holdeth still, For of God not unmarked is the shedder of much blood. And who conquers beyond right … Lo, the life of man decays; There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years; He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies. There is peril in the praise Over-praised that he hears; For the thunder it is hurled from God’s eyes.

Glory that breedeth strife, Pride of the Sacker of Cities; Yea, and the conquered captive’s life, Spare me, O God of Pities!

DIVERS ELDERS. —The fire of good tidings it hath sped the city through, But who knows if a god mocketh? Or who knows if all be true? ’Twere the fashion of a child, Or a brain dream-beguiled, To be kindled by the first Torch’s message as it burst, And thereafter, as it dies, to die too.

—’Tis like a woman’s sceptre, to ordain Welcome to joy before the end is plain!

—Too lightly opened are a woman’s ears; Her fence downtrod by many trespassers, And quickly crossed; but quickly lost The burden of a woman’s hopes or fears.

[_Here a break occurs in the action, like the descent of the curtain in a modern theatre. A space of some days is assumed to have passed and we find the Elders again assembled_.]

LEADER. Soon surely shall we read the message right; Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light True speakers, or but happy lights, that seem And are not, like sweet voices in a dream. I see a Herald yonder by the shore, Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore Rent raiment cries a witness from afar, Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war, That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke; But either shouting for a joyful day, Or else…. But other thoughts I cast away. As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray!

—And whoso for this City prayeth aught Else, let him reap the harvest of his thought!

[_Enter the_ HERALD, _running. His garments are torn and war-stained. He falls upon his knees and kisses the Earth, and salutes each Altar in turn._]

HERALD. Land of my fathers! Argos! Am I here … Home, home at this tenth shining of the year, And all Hope’s anchors broken save this one! For scarcely dared I dream, here in mine own Argos at last to fold me to my rest…. But now—All Hail, O Earth! O Sunlight blest! And Zeus Most High!

[_Checking himself as he sees the altar of Apollo._]

And thou, O Pythian Lord; No more on us be thy swift arrows poured! Beside Scamander well we learned how true Thy hate is. Oh, as thou art Healer too, Heal us! As thou art Saviour of the Lost, Save also us, Apollo, being so tossed With tempest! … All ye Daemons of the Pale! And Hermes! Hermes, mine own guardian, hail! Herald beloved, to whom all heralds bow…. Ye Blessèd Dead that sent us, receive now In love your children whom the spear hath spared. O House of Kings, O roof-tree thrice-endeared, O solemn thrones! O gods that face the sun! Now, now, if ever in the days foregone, After these many years, with eyes that burn, Give hail and glory to your King’s return! For Agamemnon cometh! A great light Cometh to men and gods out of the night. Grand greeting give him—aye, it need be grand— Who, God’s avenging mattock in his hand, Hath wrecked Troy’s towers and digged her soil beneath, Till her gods’ houses, they are things of death; Her altars waste, and blasted every seed Whence life might rise! So perfect is his deed, So dire the yoke on Ilion he hath cast, The first Atreides, King of Kings at last, And happy among men! To whom we give Honour most high above all things that live. For Paris nor his guilty land can score The deed they wrought above the pain they bore. “Spoiler and thief,” he heard God’s judgement pass; Whereby he lost his plunder, and like grass Mowed down his father’s house and all his land; And Troy pays twofold for the sin she planned.

LEADER. Be glad, thou Herald of the Greek from Troy!

HERALD. So glad, I am ready, if God will, to die!

LEADER. Did love of this land work thee such distress?

HERALD. The tears stand in mine eyes for happiness.

LEADER. Sweet sorrow was it, then, that on you fell.

HERALD. How sweet? I cannot read thy parable.

LEADER. To pine again for them that loved you true.

HERALD. Did ye then pine for us, as we for you?

LEADER. The whole land’s heart was dark, and groaned for thee.

HERALD. Dark? For what cause? Why should such darkness be?

LEADER. Silence in wrong is our best medicine here.

HERALD. Your kings were gone. What others need you fear?

LEADER. ’Tis past! Like thee now, I could gladly die.

HERALD. Even so! ’Tis past, and all is victory. And, for our life in those long years, there were Doubtless some grievous days, and some were fair. Who but a god goes woundless all his way?…. Oh, could I tell the sick toil of the day, The evil nights, scant decks ill-blanketed; The rage and cursing when our daily bread Came not! And then on land ’twas worse than all. Our quarters close beneath the enemy’s wall; And rain—and from the ground the river dew— Wet, always wet! Into our clothes it grew, Plague-like, and bred foul beasts in every hair. Would I could tell how ghastly midwinter Stole down from Ida till the birds dropped dead! Or the still heat, when on his noonday bed The breathless blue sea sank without a wave!…. Why think of it? They are past and in the grave, All those long troubles. For I think the slain Care little if they sleep or rise again; And we, the living, wherefore should we ache With counting all our lost ones, till we wake The old malignant fortunes? If Good-bye Comes from their side, Why, let them go, say I. Surely for us, who live, good doth prevail Unchallenged, with no wavering of the scale; Wherefore we vaunt unto these shining skies, As wide o’er sea and land our glory flies: “By men of Argolis who conquered Troy, These spoils, a memory and an ancient joy, Are nailed in the gods’ houses throughout Greece.” Which whoso readeth shall with praise increase Our land, our kings, and God’s grace manifold Which made these marvels be.—My tale is told.

LEADER. Indeed thou conquerest me. Men say, the light In old men’s eyes yet serves to learn aright. But Clytemnestra and the House should hear These tidings first, though I their health may share.

[_During the last words_ CLYTEMNESTRA _has entered from the Palace_.]

CLYTEMNESTRA. Long since I lifted up my voice in joy, When the first messenger from flaming Troy Spake through the dark of sack and overthrow. And mockers chid me: “Because beacons show On the hills, must Troy be fallen? Quickly born Are women’s hopes!” Aye, many did me scorn; Yet gave I sacrifice; and by my word Through all the city our woman’s cry was heard, Lifted in blessing round the seats of God, And slumbrous incense o’er the altars glowed In fragrance. And for thee, what need to tell Thy further tale? My lord himself shall well Instruct me. Yet, to give my lord and king All reverent greeting at his homecoming— What dearer dawn on woman’s eyes can flame Than this, which casteth wide her gate to acclaim The husband whom God leadeth safe from war?— Go, bear my lord this prayer: That fast and far He haste him to this town which loves his name; And in his castle may he find the same Wife that he left, a watchdog of the hall, True to one voice and fierce to others all; A body and soul unchanged, no seal of his Broke in the waiting years.—No thought of ease Nor joy from other men hath touched my soul, Nor shall touch, until bronze be dyed like wool. A boast so faithful and so plain, I wot, Spoke by a royal Queen doth shame her not.

[_Exit_ CLYTEMNESTRA.]

LEADER. Let thine ear mark her message. ’Tis of fair Seeming, and craves a clear interpreter…. But, Herald, I would ask thee; tell me true Of Menelaüs. Shall he come with you, Our land’s belovèd crown, untouched of ill?

HERALD. I know not how to speak false words of weal For friends to reap thereof a harvest true.

LEADER. Canst speak of truth with comfort joined? Those two Once parted, ’tis a gulf not lightly crossed.

HERALD. Your king is vanished from the Achaian host, He and his ship! Such comfort have I brought.

LEADER. Sailed he alone from Troy? Or was he caught By storms in the midst of you, and swept away?

HERALD. Thou hast hit the truth; good marksman, as men say! And long to suffer is but brief to tell.

LEADER. How ran the sailors’ talk? Did there prevail One rumour, showing him alive or dead?

HERALD. None knoweth, none hath tiding, save the head Of Helios, ward and watcher of the world.

LEADER. Then tell us of the storm. How, when God hurled His anger, did it rise? How did it die?