One from another taking up the course,
             But here the winner is both first and last;
             And this sure proof and token now I tell thee,
             Seeing that my lord hath sent it me from Troïa. {307}
 

While the Chorus are still overcome with amazement, Clytaemnestra triumphs over the condition of Troy that morning: like a vessel containing oil and vinegar, the conquered, bewailing their first day of captivity over the corpses of husbands and sons, the victors enjoying their first rest free from the chill dews of night and the sentry's call – and all will be well, if they remember the rights of the Gods in their sack of the city: ah! may they not in their exultation commit some sacrilegious deed of plunder, forgetting that they have only reached the goal, and have the return to make! If they should, the curse of those who have perished might still awake against them [Cl. thus darkly harping upon her secret hope that vengeance may still overtake them for the sacrifice of her daughter.] {345}

Exit Clytaemnestra, with Attendants.

After a few words of triumph (in marching rhythm), that Zeus, protector of host and guest, has visited the proud Trojans, and brought them into a net of bondage that neither young nor full-grown can overleap, the Chorus proceed to a more formal expression of their feelings in {357}

CHORAL INTERLUDE I

breaking, as regularly in the Choral Odes, into highly Lyrical rhythms accompanied with Music and Gesture-dance, the evolutions of which lead them alternately to Right and Left of Orchestra and back to Altar.

Strophe I: evolutions from Altar to Right.

Yes: it is the hand of Zeus we may trace in all this! Now what will they say who contend that the Gods care not when mortal men trample under foot the inviolable? Troy knows better now, that once relied on its abounding wealth: ah! moderate fortune is best for the seeker after Wisdom; Wealth is no bulwark to those who in wantonness have spurned the altar of the Right and Just. {375}

Antistrophe I: evolutions front Right back to Altar, rhythm as in Strophe.

Such a man is urged on by Impulse, offspring of Infatuation, till his mischief stands out clear, as worthless bronze stripped of its varnish. So Paris sees now his light-hearted crime has brought his city low. He came to the house of the Sons of Atreus, and stole a Queen away, leaving Shame where he had sat as Guest. {392}

Strophe II: change of rhythm, evolutions from Altar to Left.

 
          She, leaving to her countrymen at home
          Wild din of spear and shield and ships of war,
              And bringing, as her dower,
              To Ilion doom of death,
          Passed very swiftly through the palace gates,
              Daring what none should dare;
              And many a wailing cry
          They raised, the minstrel prophets of the house,
              "Woe for that kingly home!
          Woe for that kingly home and for its chiefs!
          Woe for the marriage-bed and traces left
              Of wife who loved her lord!"
          There stands he silent; foully wronged and yet
              Uttering no word of scorn,
          In deepest woe perceiving she is gone;
              And in his yearning love
              For one beyond the sea,
          A ghost shall seem to queen it o'er the house;
              The grace of sculptured forms
              Is loathéd by her lord,
          And in the penury of life's bright eyes
              All Aphrodite's charm
              To utter wreck has gone. {409}
 

Antistrophe II: back to Altar.

 
          And phantom shades that hover round in dreams
          Come full of sorrow, bringing vain delight;
              For vain it is, when one
              Sees seeming shows of good,
          And gliding through his hands the dream is gone,
              After a moment's space,
              On wings that follow still
          Upon the path where sleep goes to and fro.
              Such are the woes at home
          Upon the altar hearth, and worse than these.
          But on a wider scale for those who went
              From Hellas' ancient shore,
          A sore distress that causeth pain of heart
              Is seen in every house.
          Yea, many things there are that touch the quick:
              For those whom each did send
              He knoweth; but, instead
          Of living men, there come to each man's home
              Funereal urns alone,
              And ashes of the dead. {425}
 

Strophe III: change of rhythm, evolutions from Altar to Right.

War is a trafficker; in the rush of battle he holds scales, and for the golden coin you spend on him he sends you back lifeless shapes of men; they sent out men, the loving friends receive back well-smoothed ashes from the funeral pyre. They sing the heroic fall of some – all for another's wife; and some murmur discontent against the sons of Atreus, and some have won a grave in the land they had conquered. {441}

Antistrophe III: evolutions repeated, but from Right back to Altar.

So sullen discontent has been doing the work of a people's curse: therefore it is that I am awaiting with dim forebodings the full news. The Gods do not forget those who have shed much blood, and sooner or later the dark-robed Deities of the Curse consign the evil-doer to impassable, hopeless gloom. Away with the dazzling success that attracts the thunderbolt! be mine the moderate lot that neither causes nor suffers captivity. {458}

Epode: change of rhythm and Chorus not moving from the Altar.

The courier flame has brought good news – but who knows whether it be true? – Yet it is childish when the heart is all aglow with the message of the flame to be turned round by everchanging rumour. – Yet it is the nature of a woman to believe too soon. [Observe how the Chorus, setting out on an ode of triumph, have come back to their persistent forebodings.] {471}

Suddenly at the Side-door on the extreme Left of the Stage (signifying distance) appears a Herald, covered with dust, crowned with olive in token of victory. The Chorus immediately fall into their Episode position to receive him, the Foreman expressing their anticipations as the Herald traverses the long stage to the point opposite the Chorus.

EPISODE II

Foreman of Chorus. Now we shall have a clearer message than that of the beacon-fires: all is well or.. but I cannot put the other alternative. The Herald (arrived opposite the Chorus) solemnly salutes the land of Argos he had never hoped to see again, salutes the several Gods whose statues are now bright with the morning sun, especially Apollo who has proved himself a Healer, and Hermes, patron of Heralds; and then announces Agamemnon is close at hand, victorious over Troy and having sent Paris to his merited punishment. – Observe how in the parallel dialogue that follows the foreboding tone creeps in again in the midst of the news of triumph. {520}

Chor. Joy, joy, thou herald of the Achaean host!

 
  Her. All joy is mine: I shrink from death no more.
  Chor. Did love for this thy fatherland so try thee?
  Her. So that mine eyes weep tears for very joy.
  Chor. Disease full sweet then this ye suffered from.
  Her. How so? When taught, I shall thy meaning master.
  Chor. Ye longed for us who yearned for you in turn.
  Her. Say'st thou this land its yearning host yearned o'er?
  Chor. Yea, so that oft I groaned in gloom of heart.
  Her. Whence came these bodings that an army hates?
  Chor. Silence I've held long since a charm for ill.
  Her. How, when your lords were absent, feared ye any?
  Chor. To use thy words, death now would welcome be. {533}
The Herald, not understanding the source of the Chorus' misgiving, goes
on to say of course their success is mixed: so fare all but the Gods.
They have had their tossings on the sea, their exposure to the night dews
till their hair is shaggy as beasts'; but why remember these now? our
toil is past – so he suddenly recollects is that of the dead they have
left behind – but he will shake off these feelings: Troy is captured. The
Chorus feel youthful with such happy tidings. {569}
 

Enter Clytaemnestra from the Palace.

Clyt. Now they will believe me, who were saying just now that women believed too soon. What joy for a wife equal to that of a husband's return? and I have kept my trust as stainless as bronze. [Exit into Palace.] The Foreman goes on to enquire as to Menelaus: the Herald would fain not answer, and brings out the Greek dread of mingling bad news with good – at last he is forced to acknowledge Menelaus has disappeared, his ship sundered from the fleet by a terrible storm in which

 
            They a compact swore who erst were foes,
        Ocean and Fire, {634}
 

and the sea 'blossomed with wrecks of ships and dead Achaeans:' the fleet itself barely escaped. [Thus: foreboding indirectly assisted by its appearing that one of the two sons of Atreus has already been overtaken by Nemesis.] {663}

CHORAL INTERLUDE II

[Positions, etc., as before.]

Strophe I: to the Right.

Who could foresee so well and give her the name Helen– a Hell³ to men and ships and towers? She came out of bowers of gorgeous curtains, she sailed with breezes soft as Zephyrs yet strong as Titans, and unseen reached the leafy banks of the Simois; but bloodshed was in her train, and on her track followed hosts of hunters that carried shields. {680}

Antistrophe I: back to Altar.

So there is a wrath that works vengeance after long waiting: to the Ilion that received her she was a dear bride: then there was a shout of 'Paris, Paris,' in the Bridal Song: now his city has celebrated a Wedding of Death, and called on Paris' name in other tones. {695}

Strophe II: Altar to Left.

 
          So once a lion's cub,
          A mischief in his house,
          As foster child one reared,
          While still it loved the teats;
          In life's preluding dawn
          Tame, by the children loved,
          And fondled by the old,
          Oft in his arms 'twas held,
          Like infant newly born,
        With eyes that brightened to the hand that stroked,
        And fawning at the hest of hunger keen. {704}
 

Antistrophe II: back to Altar.

 
            But when full-grown, it showed
            The nature of its sires;
            For it unbidden made
            A feast in recompense
            Of all their fostering care,
            By banquet of slain sheep;
            With blood the house was stained,
            A curse no slaves could check,
            Great mischief murderous:
          By God's decree a priest of Ate thus
          Was reared, and grew within the man's own house. {715}
 

Strophe III: Altar to Right.

 
          So I would tell that thus to Ilion came
          Mood as of calm when all the air is still,
          The gentle pride and joy of kingly state,
              A tender glance of eye,
          The full-blown blossom of a passionate love,
              Thrilling the very soul;
              And yet she turned aside,
          And wrought a bitter end of marriage feast,
              Coming to Priam's race,
              Ill sojourner, ill friend,
          Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest —
          Erinnys, for whom wives weep many tears. {726}
 

Antistrophe III: back to Altar.

The time-honored saying is that Prosperity grown big will not die childless, its offspring will be a Woe insatiable. I say no, it is not the Prosperity, it is an Impious deed that breeds Impious deeds like the parent stock. {737}

Strophe IV: from Altar to Left.

Recklessness begets Recklessness, this begets full-flushed Lust and

Godforgetting Daring, two black curses to a household. {746}

Antistrophe IV: back to Altar.

Justice will dwell in houses blackened with smoke where life is ruled by law, but averts her eyes from gold-decked mansions conjoined with hands denied: and it is this Justice that is directing the course of things to its appointed goal. {755}

At this point, a grand Procession of the returning Warriors from Troy enters Stage and Orchestra by the Left Side-Door (signifying distance): Agamemnon in his chariot, followed in another chariot by Cassandra as captive, but still in the garb of prophetess: then a train of Soldiers laden with trophies and leading a train of Troïan captive women. The Chorus fall into their Episode position to receive them.

EPISODE III

Chorus (in marching rhythm as the Procession traverses the long Stage.)

Son of Atreus, how are we to hit upon welcome that shall be fit for thee, not missing or overshooting the mark? In both condolence and congratulation men's faces often belie their hearts; thou who knowest thine own sheep, should'st be able to tell kindness from flattery. We confess, when thou wentest forth on thy expedition, thou wast to us like a face limned by an unskilled artist, in the deed thou did'st to inspire false courage. Now, without a thought unfriendly, we say – all is well that ends well, and thou wilt soon hear who has deserved well of thee in thy absence. [Observe their guarded tone.] {782}

Agamemnon [the metre now settling into ordinary 'Blank Verse']. First thanks to the Gods by whose help we have laid Troy low, the ruins of which are still sending up clouds of smoke as sweet incense to the Deities of Vengeance. And your sentiments, both then and now, I approve: prosperity too often misses true sympathy amidst the envy it excites; envy that has the double pang of missing its own and seeing another's good. Experience has taught me the difference between professing and true friends: my unwilling comrade Ulysses alone proved true to me. As to the state we will deliberate in full counsel as to what needs preserving, and where disease calls for surgery. At present I must give thanks at my own hearth for my safe return.

Here the Central Door of the Stage is thrown open, and enter Clytaemnestra to welcome her lord, followed by attendants bearing rich draperies of purple and dazzling colors. {827}

Clyt. Notwithstanding your presence, Senators of Argos, I must pour out my heart to my lord. Ah! a sad thing is a wife waiting at home for her absent husband! hearing of wounds, which if true would have made you a riddled net, of deaths enough for a three-lived Geryon: again and again I have been stopped with the noose already on my neck! This is the reason why you see not your son Orestes: wonder not, he is being brought up by an ally to whom I sent him, lest danger befall us. I cannot weep; my tears have run dry by my weepings and sleepless watchings for the beacon. Now at ease I hail my lord —

 
             as watch-dog of the fold,
          The stay that saves the ship, of lofty roof {870}
          Main column-prop, a father's only child,
          Land that beyond all hope the sailor sees,
          Morn of great brightness following after storm,
          Clear-flowing fount to thirsty traveller.
 

The bare ground is not fit for the foot that has trampled on Ilion: strew (to Attendants) tapestry on the floor as the Conqueror steps from his car. The Attendants commence to lay down the draperies: Agamemnon (hastening to stop them) rebukes Clytaemnestra for the excessive tone of her welcome, and bids her not make him offensive to the Gods, by assuming an honor fit for the Gods alone, no man being safe in prosperity till he has died; fame, not foot-mats, and never to lose the path of Wisdom, are his glories. A contest ensues [the false Clytaemnestra anxious to entangle him in an act of Infatuation]; at last he yields, but removes the shoe from his foot, to avert the ill omen of such presumptuous display. He then commends the captive Cassandra to the Queen's kind treatment, and Clyt. renews her lofty expressions of joy: there is a store of purple in the palace, and many such robes would she bestow to welcome his return, the root of the household bringing warmth in winter and coolness in the dog-days. Ah! may Zeus work out for me "all that I wish for." [