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Complete Classic Drama Stories — Agamemnon (Morshead Translation)-Aeschylus. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
Author's Prefaces For Agamemnon This is a Librivox Recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Recording by Expatriot in Bangor, Maine. Agamemnon by Iskolas Translated by Edmund Doige Anderson Morsehd, 1849-1912 Author's Prefaces First Prefaces Iskolas, son of Euphorion, an Athenian of the Deem of Ellusus, was born BC 525. He consecrated his life to the tragic art from his youth upwards, yet he has held to have been a valiant soldier, and with his brother Kinegerus, to have fought at Marathon and at Salamis and at Plataea as some say. Afterwards, being at variance with the Athenians, he went away from them untaciously, and dwelt
at the court of Hiero, tyrant of Gala, and was held by him in high honor. He died in his 69th year by a strange fate, whereup he had been warned in an oracle saying a stroke from heaven shall slay thee, whereas he was walking on the shore an eagle that had snatched up a tortoise into the air, let it drop, and it fell upon him and he died. Such is almost all that we are told, and more than we can be said to know certainly of the life of the poet, whose masterpiece I have done my best to render into English verse, with the hope of helping one or two of those to whom the original is a closed book to share in its treasures. The remaining fragments of tradition, because of his quarrel with his countrymen, the statement that he divulged the sacred mysteries, remain not not to be verified. Of those given above, the tale of his death has been preserved for its striking singularity. It has the authority of story, and no more, to his familiarity with war by land and sea,
his surviving dramas bear the strongest witness. There is a priori likelihood and intrinsic evidence, and some external testimony, of his having shared in one or more of the great battles which saved the Western world. Or does his departure from Athens to whatever cause it was due, nor his residence, apparently on two separate occasions in Sicily, admit of doubt? A vague statement that his poetry was inspired by wine, a portraiture of him by the pen of Aristophanes in the frogs, intended, as I am convinced, those of Euripides and Socrates by the same hand were intended, mainly as a literary portrait of the author and teacher, not a delineation of the man as he was. Some notices from Aristotle of the improvements introduced by him into the arrangements of the dramatic stage. These and a few others form the whole of our scanty information, respecting the life of Iskilus and of Euphorion, stout Magnenomini's Umbra.
Of his works, there remained to us seven dramas only out of a very large number. Most are notices bring up the total to seventy-eight plays of which the titles are known. If we can judge of those we have not in any degree by those which we have, and many of the fragments lead us towards such an estimate, the chaos of lost things holds no equal treasure, but it is not now to be rescued in his own words, in de-stois Pelithontas Utis Alca. Perhaps a list of the surviving dramas may be useful to those wishing to form an idea of the poet's scope and range. These plays in the chronological order that seems most probable are, one, the Supliant Maidens, the scene is later Argos, two, the Prometheus bound, the scene is on a Scythian peak looking down from afar upon the Yucsean. Three, the Persians, scene, the tomb of Darius at Susa, the treasure city of the King of Persia.
Four, the seven against Thebes, scene, the city of Thebes in Biosha. Five, the Agamemnon, six the libation bearers, and seven the Furies. Of these three last plays which form a consecutive hole called a trilogy, and yet are individually complete, the scene is Argos or Mycini. Note, Argos and Mycini are in reality about six miles apart, in the great Coilon, Argos, Wide Valley of Argolyce, the relics of the dynasty of Atrius are undoubtedly at Mycini. Eatskullus however calls the scene always Argos, not caring to particularize about a district so well known. The fact that he describes the beacon fire on Mount Arachni as visible to the palace need not lead us to conclude that he had Argos more in mind than Mycini. Though the mountain is visible, if I remember right, from Larissa, the citadel of Argos,
and not, I am sure, from the acropolis of Mycini. The beacon glare would have been clearly seen from either no doubt. But Eatskullus ignores such detail. As Mr. Clark, Peloponise's page seventy remarks, every Athenian saw daily from his own hills the peak of Arachni to the south, and knew it looked upon the region of Argos, and this was enough for the poet. Afterwards the temple of Apollowette Delphi, lastly the acropolis and Ariopagus at Athens. Of an Athenian trilogy, that is a combination of three dramas by the same hand, whether on the same or different subjects for consecutive presentment on the same day, and followed by a lighter play called the satiric drama. There remains to us this solitary specimen. Of the satiric drama, the Cyclops of Euripides, familiar to English readers by Shelley's translation. It may be added to explain the apparent difficulty of listening continuously to three dramas, each
in itself a perfect whole, that in the first place a whole day of leisure and not the last few hours between work or play and sleep of an exhausted audience was devoted to the theater. And secondly, that the whole length of the three plays combined, which form this trilogy is rather less than that of Hamlet. I do not say that they would not necessarily take longer to act than Hamlet, but merely that the intellectual strain to an appreciative audience would not necessarily be greater. Change of interest, not mere rest, is the essential relaxation of the mind. And this, which Shakespeare provides, for example, by the Selillaquise of Hamlet, the Greek dramatists and preeminently escholists, provided by the Choric Oads, or chance inserted between the several episodes of the play. Both such Oads, this trilogy, and especially the Agamemnon, presents to us the noblest surviving specimens. They may be regarded as the poet's profoundest musings on the moral and religious and historical
problems, suggested by the mythical tale which forms the groundwork of his drama. Of the grandeur, the preternatural effect of these musings, while the imminent doom is preparing, no words of explanation or translation can give an adequate account. If it is lawful to adopt words written for a very different purpose, by a poet in whom survives more of the spirit of escholists than any other modern, one might say of these Choric Oads they are as a pause, a breathing space, a curtain behind which God, the great scene-shifter, prepares the last and supreme act of the mighty drama. Listen how, in the deep shadow behind, a dull and heavy sound is waxing. Listen, what footstep is that which passes to and fro? Look, how the curtain swaves and waves and trembles before the breath of that which is behind. Note, Victor Hugo de Poléon L'Epetit, last chapter, end note.
Of the mythical tale, well known as it is, which forms the groundwork of this trilogy, from slight sketch may be useful. Atrius and Thiesti's sons of Pelops fled from their father and dwelt at Argos with Eurithius the king thereof. And when he died, Atrius ruled in his place and whetted his daughter. But Thiesti's wronged his brother's wife and was banished from Argos. And after a while he returned again and clung onto the altar at Argos, and Atrius fearing to slay him devised this deed. He slew certain of the children of Thiesti's and bade him to a banquet and gave him to eat of his own children's flesh, and he ate, knowing not what it was. But when he knew what was done, he spake a bitter curse upon the house of Atrius that they should all perish by a doom like that of his own children. And there befell these woes unto that house that for three generations the curse of murder
departed not away. For the children of Atrius, Agamemnon and Menelaus wedded the daughters of Leda, Clitomnestra and Helen. And afterwards, Parasus son of Priam, being the guest of Menelaus, did bear away Helen his queen of Detroit. And Agamemnon and Menelaus went forth to vengeance against Paras and Troy. But Artemis was wrothed with the brothers and forbade their ships to sail, and they lay at Aulis many days. And Calcus the Prophet proclaimed that they should not go forth, unless Agamemnon should offer up his daughter Ifegania in sacrifice unto Artemis. And the king was unwilling so to do, yet for his oaths sake and for his brother and the captains of the fleet he consented and offered up his daughter, and the fleet sailed, and they besieged Troy for nine years, and in the tenth year it fell. But Clitomnestra, the wife of Agamemnon, was wrothed because of her daughter's death,
and she did evil with Agistas, the youngest son of Thiestes. And they plotted to murder Agamemnon when he should return, and sent away his son or resties unto Strophius, King of Focus, that he might not know what they did. And when Agamemnon came back from Troy, Clitomnestra received him gladly and led him into the palace. And as he was bathing himself, she flung over him a net, and smote him, and he died. And Clitomnestra and Agistas ruled in Argos. But Orrestes heard of his father's wrongful death, and went unto the Oracle of Delphi to inquire thereof, and Apollo bade him avenge his father, and not spare his own mother, but slay her. And secretly he came to Argos, bearing thin news of his own death, in focus, and so came into the palace of his father again, and slew his mother Clitomnestra, and I guess thus. Then was he distraught and maddened by the furies, and revened for Clitomnestra's slaying,
and he wandered over the earth seeking purification for his deed, but the furies followed him. At last he came to the temple of Delphi and clung to the altar, and the god cast a deep sleep over the furies, and bade him fly to Athens where he should find safety. But the ghost of Clitomnestra arose from the shades and awoke the furies, and they followed him, and were wrought with Apollo. And they held dispute on the Acropolis, and Athena bade certain of the men of Athens decide the cause with her. And in the end they proclaimed the deed of Orrestes to have been rightly done, and the guilt of Matroside to have been wiped away. Then the furies were angered with Athena in her land, but Athena promised them great honor from the Athenians, and a sacred dwelling place in the land, even a cave beneath Ariopagus, and they were appeased, and were called no more furies, but gracious goddesses. And Orrestes went back onto his father's kingdom, and the curse of blood upon the house
of Atrius was stayed. Note, I have ventured to give to the whole trilogy the title of the House of Atrius, as the name most applicable to all three parts. The older name Orrestias seems to me to have met in Aristophanes the libation bearers only. It is hardly applicable to the Agamemnon. It will be obvious even from a compendium like the foregoing that the myth is an epic in itself, and regarding Eescalus' treatment of it as a whole, we may discern a special propriety in the poets recorded saying that his dramas were scraps from the Lordly Feast of Homer. I have sometimes fancied that an interesting parallel might be drawn between the three parts of the trilogy and the three divisions of the Divine Comedy. For we have in both the same central idea, the succession that is of guilt, atonement, absolution. Dante fixes his epic in the future world, Eescalus in the present.
But Mutatus Mutandus substituting the deepest religious thought of Athens for that of the Middle Ages. The most shadowy and gigantic vision of retributory forces were the clearest and most distinct. We shall find the parallel curiously suggestive to say the least of the essential unity of moral speculation. The first part of the trilogy, the drama Agamemnon, takes up the above myth at the point where Agamemnon's return from Troy is being anxiously awaited at Argos in the 10th year of the war. The first Korak-Ode recalls some of the previous history, dwelling particularly on the circumstances of the sacrifice at Iphagenaea. Then follows the appearance of the herald and of Agamemnon, the treacherous welcome of Clydomnestra, the prophecy of Cassandra, daughter of Pryum, now a captive in Agamemnon's train. The murder of the King and Clydomnestra's savage exaltation over his body in that of Cassandra. With the appearance of Agusthas and his avowal of his plot and motives, the drama closes,
leaving Clydomnestra and her paramour in supreme power over Argos. The second part, called the Kiforoi, or libation bearers, from the duty imposed upon the chorus of pouring libations on Agamemnon's tomb, opens with the secret return of Orestides, the mutual recognition of himself and his sister-electra, and their invocation of the sleepless spirit of their father to aid their planned revenge. Then Orestides, assuming the character of a fokian stranger, recounts to Clydomnestra a feigned tale of his own death in that land. Then, received into the palace, he slays Agusthas and Clydomnestra, and evows his commission from Apollo to the deed. But already his are but wild and whirling words, and maddened by the guilt of blood he sees the furies arise, with dark robes and sneaky hair, and calling on Apollo for protection he flees wildly away. Note, two scenes of the trilogy have been thus admirably sketched by Mr. Browning in
Pauline. Old lore, love for itself, and all it shows, the king treading the purple calmly to his death, while round him like the clouds of Eve all dusk, the giant shades of fate silently slitting, pile the dim outline of the coming doom, and the boy with his white breast and brow and clustering curls streaked with his mother's blood and striving hard to tell his story, or his reason goes. And note, the third part called the furies, the Greek name Humanities, signifying literally the gracious goddesses from the change in the nature of the furies with which the drama closes, opens at Delphi in the temple of Apollo. The furies lie in sleep made drowsy by the god, arrestes clings to the altar, Apollo bids him be of good hope, and depart unto Athens while the furies are yet asleep. As he passes from the stage the ghost of Clytemnestra rises, and calls the slumbering furies
to arise and pursue the criminal. Then Apollo himself, with words of loathing, bids them forth from his temple, and sending like hounds the track of blood they follow the flying orrestes. Here the scene shifts to Athens. Orrestes having followed the behest of Apollo, clings to the statue of Athena on the acropolis and claims her aid. The cause is tried, apparently on Ariopagus, the scene probably representing both the acropolis and the adjacent Ariopagus. Athena presiding, Apollo pleading orrestes part, the furies impeaching him of matricide. The votes are cast and found equal for acquittal incondomination. In this result, as Athena has previously ruled, gives orrestes the benefit of the doubt. The furies, roth at being thus defrauded of their victim, vow vengeance on Athena's land and nation. But she appeases them by promising them honorable worship forever, as gracious and fostering powers of earth from her own Athenians.
And so solemnly escorted by torches and processions, they pass down into their subterranean cave beneath Ariopagus, with words of blessing upon Attica, and the third and last part of the trilogy, closer with joy and with extinction of the curse. It will appear by a glance at this plot that the Agamemnon and the libation bearers are both of them tragedies in the accepted modern sense. The one closing with the death of Agamemnon and the triumph of murder and adultery. The other with the death of Clyde Amnestra and with madness as the reward of matricide. The furies might seem to modernize less a tragedy than a drama of restoration, yet it conforms in all respects to the Aristotelian definition of tragedy. The situation is undeniably tragic, though the conclusion dispels the gloom. The trilogy is Eeskalis's presentment of two problems, each of eternal import, though
the form in which he contemplated them was the common theme of the Greek drama. These problems are, one, the retribution of crime, two, the inheritance or transmission of evil. The views of the poet on each may perhaps be illustrated by a few excerpts from his writings. It has been pointed out, plump tree biographical essay, that in many cases they are reflections on the nomi or current proverbs of the day, the foundations of Greek philosophy but often as forgotten as those who laid them. Sometimes the poet actually quotes and acknowledges the proverb as a trigator on Muthas and immemorial saying, but often it is probable that some piece of apparently irrelevant mysticism is in reality the poet's reflection on some saying familiar to his audience, but not recognizable by us. Such, for example, I believe to be the case in the celebrated passage in Agamemnon 160, Zeus, Osteas' potestein.
Retribution. Among the dead this bitter name of murderous clings ever to my soul, I wander scorned of all. Though he go down to the grave the guilty is never freed, the sinner on whose hand is a stain of blood must see the furies rise at his side of vendures of murder, champions of the slain. The furies lines 175 and 316. There is one who spoils the spoiler, the slayer in his turn is slain, while Zeus is Lord of the world it is fixed that all whose sin shall suffer. Agamemnon, line 1562. The anvil block of justice is planted firm, fate the sword smith hammers the steel of her design, the mighty fury from her dark depth of counsel, requires to the uttermost at last the guilt of blood shed forth of old. The libation bearers, line 647. There is a law that blood drops shed upon the ground, demand other blood shed in requital,
murder calls aloud, summoning a fury, who brings a further woe sent up in vengeance from those who were slain before. The libation bearers, line 400. Inheritance of evil. One set of old that the gods have no heed to punish him, who tramples down the grace of things holy, to us impiously said. Their vengeance is manifested upon the children of all who breathe forth rebellion over much, what time their house is teemed with will to great for man. Agamemnon, line 369. There is an ancient saying that human bliss, if it reach its summit, does not die childless, that from prosperity springs up a bane, a woe insatiable. I hold not so. His impious act abairs those many children, all like the race from which they sprang, but the house of the upright half a blessed fate, a progeny of good. Agamemnon, line 750.
These excerpts, few out of many passages bearing on the same subject, may perhaps be a help towards grasping the import of these dramas as a whole. Not the least of Escalus' claims to honor is his divergence in some points from the traditional and accepted views of the time, with respect to hereditary guilt and responsibility. A belief in a jealous and vindictive power in children suffering for their father's sons, in families lying under a curse for generations, was not only familiar to the Athenians of this epoch, but approached the condition of an accepted tenet. It was even at times a political force, as in the case of Pericles, his membership of the Alchmiyonid family, which lay under a curse for the perfidious and impious murder of the partisans of Kailan, undoubtedly operated in his disfavor. See Thucydides Book 1 Chapter 127. The proportion of people who believe in an unjust, capricious and vindictive God may have
diminished since the time of Escalus and Ezekiel. Yet to this day, so large a minority are haunted by corresponding ideas, so considerable even in our own time, has been the political influence of such notions. That the earnest protest of the Hebrew prophet, and the less distinct yet equally purified doctrine of the Athenian poet, can neither of them be said to have lost their importance nor to have done their work. The 18th chapter of Ezekiel and the third chorus of the Agamemnon should be read together as the grandest assertions in pre-Christian times of the justice of God. The poetry of Ezekolus is the precursor of the philosophy of Plato. The vague and mysterious problems over which the poet rooted became the subject's immoral philosophy in the next generation. Let it be remembered that we have in Ezekolus the beginnings of speculation, not its ultimate forms, and the greatness of this first step will be at once apparent.
Ezekolus deals especially with two popular theories. One, the doctrine of the jealousy of heaven against human prosperity as such. And two, the doctrine above mentioned of the inheritance of evil in certain families. The first he may be said to deny. The teaching of Solon, as recorded and exemplified by Herodotus in the history of Cresus, book 1 chapters 30 through 33, that the divine power is altogether jealous and loves to trouble the estate of man, is confronted by Ezekolus with the assertion of justice not caprice as ruling over man. That this conception brought the poet into collision with the popular ideas of Zeus is manifest from the drama of Prometheus Vinctus, where unfortunately we have the problem without its solution, the rest of the trilogy being lost. But the national polytheism had little hold on his belief, however largely it affected his poetry, seems to me plain from all his deeper utterances, notwithstanding the assertion
of clousin to the contrary. But of the poet's attitude towards the theory of a vindictive God, there is no question. I am alone in my thought he cries, it is not wealth nor prosperity, it is impiety that breeds other sins and woe for its sequel. It is hard to resist the temptations of wealth and power and victory, yet not these things but the yielding to their temptations to the God's punish. Not Agamennon's triumph, not even the carnage of Troy, but his arrogance and pride on his return, is making himself equal to the gods. The second doctrine, that of the inheritance of evil in certain families, forms the groundwork of the whole trilogy. And the poet's views on it must be collected, there are nowhere concentrated or distinctly expressed. Substantially they appear to apply to the following condition of things. The idea of an Ate or inherited curse which dogs certain families has a double origin.
One, an origin of fact, the children are like their parents, grow up under their influence, borrow from their connection with them much of their own character. Two, an origin in custom, a family crime had a far more serious import to an ancient Greek than we can readily realize. It is a simple fact that the idea of individual responsibility and even of individual existence was almost absent from him. The family was his unit, the family sinned in the sin of any of its members, the family exacted or suffered vengeance, any member of the family who was slain by another was held to have incurred the stain of suicide. The author of the trilogy endeavors to purify these ideas and to reconcile them alike with the doctrine of justice and with the facts of the world. The reality of the curse is not denied, but the voluntary nature of each stage in its history is asserted as is the responsibility of the individual criminal for his own act.
The temptation, the predisposition may be extraneous, may be imposed by heaven, the deed is his own. The first step he is master not to take, but if once it be taken, if the author of right be once spurn, the miserable desperate impulse is upon him. He goes from sin to sin, there is no help for him, he is passed among the lost. What I believe is the inner doctrine of ischalice, struggling to light through language of vague import and occasional inconsistencies, especially in the relation of this process of evil to the divine will or permission. Nor must we forget his solution of the moral problem in the furies. The family guilt and curse are to be closed by an appeal to human justice, which measures the guilt of the individual by the circumstances and motives of his crime, and has power to absolve, as well as to meet out punishment to and admit criminal. Granting as we must grant, the belief in such an hereditary curse as Iskolas made the
subject of his trilogy, it is impossible to conceive a nobler solution of the problem, a nobler purification by pity and terror if we may adopt in an extended sense Aristotle's definition of tragedy. Perhaps it may not be out of place to say a few words, with respect to a charge often brought against Iskolas of being a bombastic poet. It is undeniable that in his earlier plays, there is a tendency towards inflated language, such prodigies as F. Psalocie, Cazeprothy, Thenon from Prometheus, line 362, as Alosimone, Ayon, Ebed Zyakkhafas, seven against Thebes, line 635, show at all events a poetic artist who has not yet fully dissevered the large from the fine, the grandiose from the grand. Neither are the thoughts in these plays always free from the same charge, though the occurrence of metaphors which we regard as Oriental seems to meet a demonstrate capacity rather than
extravagance in the Greek poet. It is surprising, for instance, to find in the celebrated description of the Battle of Salamis, the Persians, line 577, and of the floating corpses of the drowned Persians, and death knowing upon them. Skulontai, prosa, now don, pydontas, amyantu. They are scattered and peeled by the voiceless children of the pure, that is the sea. It is surprising, I say, to find such a phrase treated as fantastic and Oriental. The same thought has been touched by Shakespeare in the Tempest Act 2, scene 1. O thou mine, Arab Naples and Abmalan, what strange fish have made his meal on thee. And by Shelley, in Similes, as a shark and dogfish wait under an Atlantic Isle, where the Negro ship, whose freight is a theme of their debate, wrinkling their red gills the wild. But how inferior each expression is to that of Iskulis need hardly be pointed out.
Shakespeare's is simple almost to boldness, Shelley's powerfully, almost horribly descriptive, but Iskulis retaining the physical world, Skulontai, paints the rest of the scene with a rich imagination. The children of Earth, but now so clamorous, are at the mercy of the still children of that sea, whose translucent purity they have harassed and distracted in vain. However this may be, what I wish to point out is that all traces of immature work have disappeared when we reach the trilogy. The sonorous verse remains, but the exaggerated style is gone. The ponderous implications of the Prometheus, or the seven against thebes, have turned to verse like this. Martin, Telaeantis, Emis, Pydas, Dikin, Atin, Erinant, Aisy, Tonos, Esfadz, Ego, Umoy, Fobu, Melathron, Elpis, Empathane.
Occasionally, as in the prophecy of Calcus, the oracular style is purposely assumed, or, as in the furies, line 285 and following, a scene of monstrous horrors is described in monstrous terms, but of real bombast of large language misapplied, there is no more. With this disappearance, a new faculty has arisen, a dramatic art of the most admirable kind. Not even the excellent double interest of the etepist tyrannis of Sophocles is superior to the scene of Clitamnestra's welcome of Agamemnon, with its effusive insincereity and ominous words of double and deadly meaning. The whole character of Clitamnestra is a refutation of those who maintain that we may find poetry and ischalice, but must go to Sophocles or Euripides for drama. Nor must we omit to notice the marvelous art displayed in the whole episode of Cassandra, where spirit is utterly full of Apollo, the sun god, the slayer of night. A mention, nay, a mere hint of him, Puthakranta, line 1255, banishes in a moment her brief
sanity and she bursts into ravings again. She is penetrated with the fire, intolerant and intense of his coming, of the sunrise of prophecy burning brighter and clearer while in its light the great waves of doom roll up and on. His approach is a scorching glow of fire before his presence is revealed. Papai, oyan, to pur, eperechatai, demoi, o totoi, auke, apalan, a-a the fire, it waxes near me now, wo wo for me, Apollo of the dawn. In her last speech is a cry to the actual sun, whose light she will see no more forever to light her avengers to their work. Close inspection of all this scene will show Iskolas at his very highest point of inspiration it is as true and as imaginative as anything in King Lear. With respect to the text I think I have only once departed from usual interpretations,
where the text is mutilated or corrupt I have supplied or amended as the context seemed to direct to the extent of a word or two. See appendix to the libation bearers. The one occasion where my version differs I believe from any yet suggested is the celebrated passage from Egamemnon lines 105 and 7. Etigar, Theothen, Katapneai, Patho, Miopan, Alka, Sumfutas, Ion. This I have interpreted in opposition to those who have taken Alka, Sumfutas, Ion as in some way describing the condition of the speaker. I suggest that it may rather be taken closely with Theothen and that the whole passage means still upon me doth the divine life whose strength waxes never old, literally which is congenital with strength, breathed from heaven the impulse of song. This seems to suit the context well as I may shortly explain. The chorus had just been bewailing the sad and tremulous weakness of old age, to feeble
for war, to feeble to walk without a staff, sad and presage full of future evils, and only at moments roused to hope by propitious onens of sacrifice. Suddenly the light of comfort breaks upon them, old and feeble they have yet the divine inspiration of song, breathed on them from realms of help, Alka, by powers which never wax old nor feeble, then follows the matchless ode with its profound theology, its analysis of human perplexity, its utter payfoss, and describing the sacrifice of Iphagania. In defense of this view, I would urge that Alka is not a usual word, at least I have been unable to find an instance of its use for any mental power like genius or inspiration. It almost always means physical prowess, and if it becomes metaphorical at all, it becomes so in the sense of help or aid, as in the furies line 257 Alkan Ehon, clasping or holding help by embracing the image of the goddess, taking sanctuary in short.
With this view of the word be correct, the word itself applies very ill to the chorus, whose physical feebleness and powerlessness to help have just been alluded to, but very well to the gods whose ageless strength and power to aid are contrasted with human weakness. The thought is Alka, sum futas Ehon will thus be parallel to that in Agiro, Crono, Dunastas of Sophocles in Antigone line 608. Undoubtedly there is a difficulty in applying such a phrase, as sum futas Ehon to the divine life at all, but it seems allowable to use words properly only applicable to human life, with reference to the divine in a passage like this, wherein thought the contrast is drawn between the former as an Ehon sum futas indeed, but not Alka sum futas, and the latter, barely an Ehon in the wider sense, and Alka sum futas, coevil with its eternal power to prompt
and aid. And certainly the word Kattapneeh in its most literal sense seems to suit this idea of a sacred impulse, an aid like a wafting wind breathed down from heaven. I put forward this conjecture without confidence, and merely as one more endeavor to elucidate a passage of more than usual interest, which is allowed to be dubious hither too. To make it refer to the life or condition of the speaker seems to me difficult, to translate at the time coextensive with the war almost impossible, whether my own conjecture is any better, you decant Ali. For the feeling of the whole passage, it might not be a miss to compare good to his vindication of the honor and toil that await the old in song. Dokiins becante, zaitan spiel, mitmüpten, anmüpt, ein zu greifen, nach einem selbst gesteckten seal, mit holen, irren, hinzu schweifen, das Alte herren ist oire flicht, Faust Part
1, Theodor Prelude. With respect to the translation my object has been throughout, to be if possible readable, I have sacrificed much that scholars might fairly desiderate, reproduction of the original meters, preservation of strofi and anti-strofi and so forth, on this ground, that I found my own metrical skill insufficient to satisfy even myself in such a task. I have little doubt that certain parts, Cassandra's earlier ravings for instance, or the wrath of the furries, would be most fitly rendered in prose like that of the analogous passages of King Lear and Macbeth. But here too, after a struggle I resign the conflict. It is easy to write prose, it is impossible to write that prose. The anapestic systems have been mostly rendered in octosalabic meter, where dactylic feet were predominant in the original, I have sometimes adopted the heroic quattrain, sometimes loose and irregular, but always rhyming measures.
The earlier part of a third course of the agamemnon, I have endeavored to reproduce in that arrangement of octosalabic verses used with such admirable effect by Mr. Swinburne in the prologue and epilogue of songs before sunrise. The Iambic dialogue has been rendered into such blank verse or rhyming couplets as I could command, the trochaic passages into rhyming verse of greater length. Any coincidences that may be found between other translations and the present, they claim to be for the most part accidental. Whatever has been consciously adopted from elsewhere has been acknowledged in a footnote, unless so familiar as to have become common property. Thus I have not thought it necessary to evow obvious obligations to Shakespeare, nor to ascribe the airy rings of the vultures flight in the first chorus of the agamemnon to Johnson, nor the sleep of swords that find rendering of the Homeric Calcaus Upnos to Kingsley, nor the rhythm of one coric passage in the libation bearers to W. Morris, such
things are public property now. Part of this translation, that is the agamemnon having been already published, I have had for that part the advantage of public criticism. I have carefully considered all such criticism, so far as it has reached me and have removed I hope, all positive errors that have been detected. These critics who have complained rather of the general faults of the translation, such for example as diffuseness or a modern tone than of particular errors, will I hope believe my assurance that their words have been duly weighed. If I have not recast the translation to the extent their criticism demanded, it is neither from doubting its substantial truth, nor the seriousness of the fault. But I am not sanguine after various attempts of my being able to translate in a closer and more pregnant style. It is not a question of how the thing could be done best in the abstract. It is, unfortunately, the more limited and painful question, how a particular individual
can do at least imperfectly. My main obligations in the matter of iscalus are expressed in the dedication. In addition, I am indebted to the Reverend WA-Ferron, Assistant Master of Winchester, for revising a large part of the agamemnon. To Mr. C. Kiegen Paul, for useful criticisms, mainly do not wholly on the same play. To Mr. A. O. Prickard, fellow and lecturer of New College Oxford, for incidental assistance throughout the work, particularly in the libation bearers and the furies. To Mr. C. B. Phillips, Assistant Master of Winchester, who has gone over the whole translation with care. To Mr. D. S. Margoliath, fellow of New College Oxford, who has helped me especially with several difficulties in the furies. Other friends will I doubt not, except the general acknowledgement of their aid. I cannot, however, leave unspecified my gratitude to Mr. F. R. Benson and the rest of the Oxford Company, who last year performed the agamemnon on the stage for the practical insight they
afforded their audience into the spectacular as well as the literary and dramatic merit of that noblest of poems. E. D. A. M. Winchester, March 1881. Prof. to the second edition. In republishing the House of Atreus, I have striven to remove the flaws to which private or public criticism called my attention. A grave mistranslation of the furies line 216 has I hope been banished. Mr. A. O. Prickard and Professor Margoliath, independently detected and denounced it to me. I now plead with our resties, miasma, dekplutan, pelae, cronas, caffire, panta, ghi rascon, omu. I may be permitted to add a statement of the general principle that I have followed in making alterations. Errors in scholarship I have endeavored to remove, where the English has been criticized, I have always considered and often obeyed the criticism.
Scores I have resisted it in obedience to a higher law, for example, several critics objected to the use of the word spilth. I have retained it as used by Shakespeare, and therefore fitted for tragic poetry, though no longer an ordinary use. With regard to the form of the translation, I had not made any serious change. Where I now attempting the thing for the first time, I should not throw so much of the first chorus of the agamemnon into quatrains. But in this as in other cases, that which was originally difficult to do, has become almost impossible to undo and do again. The previous translation stands like an airing and prohibatory ghost, micat aselfis, taide, phonon, edam, winchester, october 1899. End of author's prefaces, recording by ectpatria in Bangor, Maine.
Part 1 of Agamemnon by Eeskilis, translated by Edmund Deutsch Anderson Morsehade 1849 to 1912. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Starting by ectpatria in Bangor, Maine. Part 1. Jermadas Persona, a watchman, chorus, cladamnestra, a herald, agamemnon, cassandra, I guess thus. The scene is the palace of atrius at mycini, in front of the palace stand statues of the gods, and alters prepared for sacrifices. A watchman. I pray the gods to quit me of my toils, to close the watch I keep this live long year, whereas a watchdog lying not at rest propped on one arm upon the palace roof of atrius race too long, too well I know the starry conclave of the midnight sky, too well the splendors of the firmament, the lords of light whose kingly aspect shows what time they set or climb
the sky in turn, the year's divisions bringing frost or fire. And now as ever am I set to mark when shall stream up the glow of signal flame, the bail fire bright, until its trojan tail, Troy town is tamed, such issue holds in hope, she and whose woman's breast beats heart of men. Thus upon my unrestful couch I lie, bade with the do's of night unvisited by dreams, ah me, for in the place of sleep stands fear as my familiar, and repels the soft repose that would mine eyelid seal. And if at miles for the lost balm of sleep I medicine my soul with melody of trill or song a none to tears I turn, wailing the woe that broods upon this home, not now by honor guided as of old. And now at last, fair full the welcome hour that sets me free, when air the thick night glow with beacon fire of hope deferred no more.
All hail, a beacon light is seen reddening the distant sky. Fire of the night that brings my spirit day, shedding on argos light and dance and song, greetings to fortune hail, let my loud summons ring within the ears of agamemnon's queen that she and non start from her couch, and with a shrill voice cry a joyous welcome to the beacon blaze, for aliens fall, such fiery message gleams from Jan high flame, and I before the rest will foot the light some measure of our joy, for I can say my master's dice fell fair, behold the triple-sice the lucky flame. Now be my lot to clasp in loyal love, they hand of him restored who rules our home. But I say no more, upon my tongue treads hard the ox of the adage. At it voice the home itself might soothly as tell its tale, I of set will speak words the wise may learn, to others not remember nor discern.
Exit the chorus of old men of my seeny enter, each leaning on a staff, during their song Clitam Nestra appears in the background, kindling the alters. Chorus, ten live long years have rolled away since the twin lords of Septored Sway by Zeus endowed with pride of place the doubty chiefs of atrious race went forth of your, to plead with prieum face to face before the judgements seat of war. A thousand ships from our give land put forth to bear the marshal bend that with a spirit stern and strong went out to write the kingdoms wrong. Pealed as they went the battle song, wild as the vultures cry, when or the airey soaring high and wild bereaved agony, around and airy rings they wheeled with orage of their wings, but not the aess brood behold that called them to the nest of old. But let Apollo from the sky or pan or Zeus, but hear the cry, the exile cry the wail for
Lorne, a bird from whom their home is torn, on those who wrought the rapine fell, heaven sends the vengeful fiends of hell. Even so death Zeus, the jealous lord and guardian of the hearth and bored, speed atrious suns in vengeful aire against Paris sends him forth on fire, her to buy back in war and blood whom one did wed but many wooed. And many many by his will the last embrace of foes shall feel, and many a knee and dust be bowed, and splintered spears on shields ring loud of Trojan and of Greek before that iron bridal feast be or. But as he willed, his ordered all, and woes by heaven ordained must fall, unsued by tears or spilt of wine poured forth too late, the wrath divine glare's vengeance on the fling was shrined. And we in gray dishonored elders, feeble of frame unfit were held to join the warrior array
that then went forth unto the fray, and here at home we tarry feign our feeble footsteps to sustain each on his staff so strength doth wane, and turns to childishness again. For while the sap of youth is green, and yet unripened leaps within, the young are weekly as the old, and each alike unmeet to hold, the vantage post of war. And ah, when flower and fruit are ore, and on life's tree the leaves are seer, age when doth propped its journey drear as forstless as a child, as light and fleeting as a dream of night, lost in the garish day. But thou, O child of Tindarius, queen Clydomnestra's speak, and say what messenger of joy today hath one thine ear, what welcome news that thus in sacrificial wise een to the city's boundaries, thou bidest altar fires arise. Each god who doth our city guard, and keeps ore argos watch and ward, from heaven above,
from earth below, the mighty Lord to rule the skies, the markets lesser deities to each and all the altars glow, piled for the sacrifice. And here and there, a near afar, stream skyward, many a beacon star, conjured and charmed, and kindled well, by pure oil soft and guileless spell, hid now no more within the palace secret store. O queen, we pray thee, what so air, known unto thee were well revealed, that thou wilt trust it to our ear, and bid our anxious heart be healed, that weeneth now unto despair, now, waxing to a pressage fair, dawns from the altar, hope, to scare from our rent-harts the vulture care. List, for the power is mine, to chant on high the chiefs and prize, the strength that omen's gays, list, on my soul breathes yet a harmony, from realms of ageless powers and strong to save. How brother kings, twin lords of one command, led forth the youth of hellus in their flower,
urged on their way with vengeful spear and brand, by warrior birds that watched the parting hour. Go forth to Troy, the eagles seem to cry, and the sea-king's obeyed the sky-king's word, went on the right they soared across the sky, and one was black, one bore a white-tail bird. High or the palace were they seen to soar, then lit inside of all in rent and tear, far from the fields that they should range no more, big with her unborn brood, a mother-hair. And one beheld the soldier-profit true, and the two chiefs, unlike of soul and will, in the twy-colored eagles straight he knew, and spake the omen forth for good and ill. Ah, woe, and well a day, but be the issue fair, go forth he cried, and primes town shall fall, yet long the time shall be, and flock and heard, the people's wealth that roam before the wall shall force you down, when fate shall give the word.
But oh beware, less wrath in heaven abide, to dim the glowing battle forage once more, and mar the mighty curb of Trojan pride, the steel of vengeance, welded as for war. Provergen Artemis bears jealous hate against the royal house the eagle-pair, who rend the unborn brood in satiate, ye loathes their banquet on the quivering hair. Ah, woe, and well a day, but be the issue fair, for well she loves the goddess kind and mild, the tender newborn cubs of lion's bold, two weak to range, and well the sucking child of every beast that roamed by wood and wool. So to the Lord of heaven she prayeth still, nay if it must be be the omen true, yet do the vision to eagles pressage ill, the n be well but crossed with evil too. Healer Apollo, be her wrath controlled, nor weed the long delay of thwarting gales, to war against the denayons and withhold from the free ocean waves their eager sails.
She craves alas to see a second life shed forth, accursed unhalowed sacrifice, twixed wedded souls, artificer of strife, and hate that knows not fear and fell device. At home their tarry's like a lurking snake biting its time a wrath unrecconciled, a wily watcher passionate to slake in blood resentment for a murdered child. Such was the mighty warning, peeled of your, amid good tidings such the word of fear, but time the fateful eagles hovered over the kings and calcus red the omen clear, and leave the league of ships and fail each true ally, for rightfully they crave with eager firey mind the Virgin's blood shed forth to lull the adverse wind. God send the deed be well. Thus on his neck he took fates hard compelling yoke, then in the counter-gale of will abhorred accursed to recklessness's shifting spirit veered, alas that frenzy first of ills and
worst with evil craft men's souls to sin hath ever stirred. And so he stealed his heart, aw well a day, aiding a war for one false woman's sake his child to slay, and with her spilt blood make an offering to speed the ships upon their way. Waiting for war the bloody arbiter's closed heart and ears, and would nor hear nor heed the girl voice pleaded pity me father, nor her prayers, nor tender virgin years. So when the chant of sacrifice was done her father bade the youthful priestly train raise her like some poor kid above the altar stone, from where amid her robe she lay, sunk old in swoon away. Bade them as with the bit that mutely tamed the steed, her fair lip speech refrain, lest she should speak a curse on atrius home and seed, so trailing on the earth her robe of saffron die, with one last pittiest dart from her bee's seaching eye those that should smite she smote.
Fair silent as a pictured form, but feigned to plead is all forgot. How off those halls of old wherein my sire high feasted whole rang to the virginal soft strain, when I a stainless child sang from pure lips and undefiled, sang of my sire and all his honored life, and how on him should fall heavens highest gift and gain, and then, but I beheld not nor can tell what further fate befell, but this is sure that Calcutte's boating strain can nare be void or vain, this wage from justice hand to sufferers earn the future to discern. And yet, farewell, O secret of tomorrow, for knowledge is for sorrow, clear with the clear beams of the moral sun the future presseth on. Now let the house's tale how dark so air find yet an issue fair, so praise the loyal solitary band that guards the APN land.
They turn to Clyde Mnestra, who leaves the alters and comes forward. Oh, queen, I come in reverence of thy sway, for while the rulers kingly see his void, the loyal heart before his consort bends. Now be it sure in certain news of good, or the fair tidings of a flattering hope, that did see spread the light from shrine to shrine, I feigned to hear yet grudge not if thou hide. Clyde Mnestra, as sayeth the adage from the womb of night spring forth with promise fair, the young child light, I fare even then all hope my news by greation hens as primes city-tain. Corus, what sayest thou? Doubtful heart makes treacherous ear, Clyde Mnestra. Here then again in plainly, Troy is ours. Corus, thrills through my heart such joy as wakens tears. Clyde Mnestra, I, through those tears, thine eye looks loyalty.
Corus, but hast thou proof to make assurance sure? Clyde Mnestra, go too, I have, unless the God has lied. Corus, has some night vision won thee to belief? Clyde Mnestra, out on all prestige of a slumbre soul, Corus, but worth thou cheered by rumors wingless word? Clyde Mnestra, peace thou dost chide me as a credulous girl. Corus, save then, how long ago the city fell? Clyde Mnestra, even in this night that now brings forth the dawn? Corus, yet who so swift could speed the message here? Corus, save then, how long ago the city fell? Corus, save then, how long ago the city fell? Clyde Mnestra, from Ida's top havefestest lord of fire, sent forth his sign and on and ever on, beacon to beacon, sped the courier flame, from Ida to the crag that Hermes loves of Lemnos, then sun to the steeps of blime of Athos thrown of Zeus, the broad blaze flared,
and from the pyre of pine and urged its way in golden glory like some strange new sun. Onward, and reached Melchistus watching heights, there with no dull delay nor heedless sleep, the watcher sped the tidings on in turn, until the guard upon Mesapeas peak saw the fair flame gleam on Europe as tide, and from the high-piled heap of withered furs lit the new sign and bade the message on, then the strong light far flown and yet undimmed, shot through the sky above a soapest plain, bright as the moon, and on Catherine's crag aroused another watch of flying fire, and there the sentinels no wit disowned, but sent redoubled on the haste of flame, swift shot the light above Gorgopus Bay, to egiplanktus mountain bade the peak fail not the onward ordinance of fire, and like a long-beard streaming in the wind, full fed with fuel roared in rows the blaze, and onward flaring gleamed
above the cape beneath which shimmers the seronic bay, and thence leapt light unto a Rackney's peak, the mountain watched it looks upon our town, thence to the atriides' roof in lineage fair, a bright posterity of Ida's fire, so sped from stage to stage, fulfilled in turn flame after flame, along the course ordained and low, the last to speed upon its way cites the end first, and glows unto the goal, and Troy is tain, and by this sign my Lord tells me the tale, and ye have learned my word. To heaven, O queen, will I upraise new song, but wouldst thou speak once more, I fain would hear from first to last the marvel of the tale?" Cladam Nestra, thank you, this very mourn the Greeks in Troy, and loud therein the voice of utter whale, within one cup poor vinegar and oil, and look unblent, unrecconciled they
wore, so in the twofold issue of the strife mingle the victor's shout the captive's bone, for all the conquered whom the sword has spared, cling weeping, some unto a brother's slain, some childlike to a nursing father's form, and wail the loved and lost the wild their neck bows down already, beneath the captive's chain. In low the victors, now the fight is done, goaded by restless hunger, far and wide range, all disordered through the town, to snatch such vital and such rest as chance may give, within the captive holes that once were Troy, joyful to rid them of the frost and dew, wherein they couched upon the plain of old, joyful to sleep the gracious night all through unsummoned of the watching sentinel. Yet let them reverence well the city's gods, the lords of Troy, though fallen in her shrines, such how the spoiler's not in turn be spoiled. Yay, let no craving for forbidden gain bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed,
for we need yet before the race be won, home words unharmed to round the course once more. For should the host wax want an eric come, then though the sudden blow of fate be spared, yet in the sight of God shall rise once more the great wrong of the slain to claim revenge. Now hearing from this woman's mouth of mine, the tale and eak its warning pray with me, bucks sway the scale, with no uncertain poise, for my fair hopes are changed to fairer joys. Corus, a gracious word thy woman's lips have told, were the wise man's utterance, oh, my queen, now with clear trust and eye-convincing tale I set me to salute the gods with song, who bring us bliss to counter-poise our pain. Exit, Cladamnestra. Zeus, Lord of heaven, and welcome night a victory that hast our might with all the glory's crown, on towers that Ilyan free no more, hast flung the mighty mesh of war and closely
girth them round, till neither warrior may scape nor stripling lightly overleap the trammels as they close and close, till with a grip of doom our foes and slavery's coil are bound. Zeus, Lord of hospitality, in grateful awe I bend to thee, to his thou hast struck a blow, at Alexander long ago we marked the bend thy vengeful bow, but long and wearily withhold the eager shaft which uncontrolled and loosed too soon or launched too high, and wandered bloodless through this guy. Zeus the high god, what air be dim in doubt, this can our thought track out. The blow that fells the sinner is of god, and as he wills the rod of vengeance might usore, one set of old the gods list not to hold a reckoning with him whose feet oppress the grace of holiness, an impious word, for when so air the sire breatheth forth rebellious fire, what time his households overflowed the measure of bliss and health and treasure,
his children's children read the reckoning plain at last in tears and pain. On me let wheel that brings no woe be sent, and therewith all content. Whose burns the shrine of right nor wealth nor power shall beat to him a tower, to guard him from the gulf, there lies his lot, where all things are forgot. Lust drives him on, lust desperate and wild, fate sin can try being child and cure is none, beyond concealment clear kindles sins bale for glare, as an ill-coined beneath the wearing touch betrays by stain and smudge its metal-fals, such as the sinful white. Before unpignion's light fair pleasure flits, and lures him child like on, while home and kin make moan beneath the grinding burden of his crime. Till in the end of time cast down of heaven, he pours forth fruitless prayer to powers that will not hear. In such did Paris come into a triadies home, and thence with sin and shame his welcome to
repay, ravish the wife away, and she unto her country and her kin, leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships, and bearing on to Troy destruction for a dour, and over-bould in sin, went fleetly through the gates at midnight hour. Not from the profit slips moaned out the warning and the whale, awow. Woe for the home, the home, and for the chieftains woe, woe for the bride-bed warm yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form of her who loved her Lord a while ago, and woe for him who stands shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands that find her not and seize yet will not see that she is far away. And his sad fancy yearning or the sea shall summon and recall her wrath once more to queen it in his hall, and sad with many memories the fair cold beauty of each sculptured face, and all to hatefulness has turned her grace, seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes.
And when the night is deep, come vision sweet and sad, and bearing pain of hoping's vain, void, void, and vain, for scarce this sleeping sight has seen its old delight, when through the grasps of love that bid at stay it vanishes away, unsilent wings that roam adown the ways of sleep. Such are the sights, sassaro's fell, above our hearth, and worse whereof I may not tell, but all the wide town or, each home that sent its master far away from hell is sure, feels the keen thrill of heart the pang of loss today, for truth to say the touch of bitter death is manifold. Familiar was each face and dear is life that went unto the war, but thither once a warrior went of old, doth not return, only a spear ensured and ashes in an urn. For Ari's lord of strife, who doth ass weighing scales of battlehold, war's money-changer giving dust for gold, sends back to hearts that held them dear, scant ash of warriors
wept with many a tear, light to the hand but heavy to the soul, yea fills the light urn full with what survived the flame, death's dusty measure of a hero's frame. A last one cries, and yet alas again, our chief has gone the hero of the spear and half not left his pier. Ah, woe, another moans, my spouse is slain, the death of honor rolled in dust and blood, slain for a woman's sin a false wife's shame. Such muttered words of bitter mood rise against those who went forth to reclaim, yea jealous wrath creeps on against the atriides' name. And others far beneath the Ilyan wall, sleep their last sleep, the goodly chiefs, and all, couched in the foamens land whereon they gave their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his Trojan grave. End of Part 1, Recording by Expatriot in Bangor, Maine.
Part 2 of Agamemnon by Iskolas, translated by Edmund Deutsch Anderson Morsehd, 1849 to 1912. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Expatriot in Bangor, Maine. Part 2, The chorus continues, therefore for each and all the city's breast is heavy with a raft suppressed, as deep and deadly as a curse more loud flung by the common crowd, and brooding deeply doth my soul await tidings of coming fate, buried as yet in darkness womb, for not forgetful as the high gods doom against the sons of Carnage. All too long seems the unjust to prosper and be strong, till the dark furies come, and smite with stern reversal all his home, down into dim obstruction he is gone, and help and hope among the lost is none.
For him who vaunteth an exceeding fame in pens a woe condine, the vengeful bolt upon his eyes doth flame, sped from the hand divine. This bliss be mine, ungrudged of God to feel, to tread no city to the dust, nor see my own life thrust down to a slave's estate beneath another's heel. Behold throughout the city wide have the swift feet of rumor hide, roused by the joyful flame, but is the news they scatter sooth, or happily do they give for truth some cheat which haven't doth frame. A child where he and all unwise, who let his heart with joy be stirred to see the beacon fires a rise, and then beneath some thwarting word sicken a non with hope deferred. The edge of woman's insight still good news from true divideeth ill, light rumours leap within the bound that fences female credence round, but lightly born as lightly
dies the tale that springs of her surmise. Soon shall we know whereof the bail-fires tell, the beacons kindled with transmitted flame, whether as well I deem their tale is true, or whether like some dream delusive came the welcome blaze but to be fool our soul. Over low I see a herald from the shore draw hither, shadowed with the olive-reeth, and thirsty dust twin brother of the clay, speaks plain of travel far and truthful news. No dumb surmise nor tongue of flame and smoke fitfully kindled from the mountain-pire, but plain lear shall his voice say all as well, or but away for boatings at verse now, an unfair promise fair fulfillment come, and whoso for the state praise otherwise himself reparvest of his ill desire. Enter herald, O land of Argos, father land of mine, to thee at last beneath the tenth
year's sun my feet return, the bark of my imprise, though one by one hopes anchors broke away, held by the last and now rides safely here, long, long my soul, despaired to win in death its long-for rest within our ar-guive land, and now all hail O'erth and hail to thee new risen sun, and hail our country's god, high ruling Zeus, and thou the pithy and lord, whose arrows smote us once, smite thou no more, was not thy wrath wreaked full upon our heads, O King Apollo by scamander's side, turn thou, be turned, be saviour healer now, and hail all gods who rule the street and mart, and herme's hail my patron and my pride, herald of heaven and lord of heralds here, and here is ye who sped us on our way to one and all I cry, receive again with grace such argives as the spear has spared.
Ah, home of royalty, beloved halls, and solemn shrines and gods that front themorn, be nine as erased with sun-flushed aspect greet the King, returning after many days, for as from night flash out the beans of day, so out of darkness dawns a light, a king, on you, on Argo's agament non comes, then hail and greet him well, such mead befits him, whose right hand hew down the towers of Troy, with a great axe of Zeus who writeeth wrong, and smoke the plain, smoke down to nothingness each alter every shrine, and far and wide dyes from the whole land's face its offspring fair. Such mighty yoke of fate he set on Troy, our lord and monarch atreous elder son, and comes at last with blissful owner-home, highest of all who walk on earth today, not Paris,
nor the city's self that paid sins price with him can boast what air befall the gird and we have one outweighs at all, but at fate's judgment seat the robber stands condemned of rapine, and his prey is torn forth from his hands, and by his deed is reaped a bloody harvest of his home and land gone down to death, and for his guilt and lust his father's race pays double in the dust. Horus, hail, herald of the Greeks, new come from war. Herald, all hail, not death itself can fright me now. Corus, was thine heart wrung with longing for thy land? Herald, so that this joy doth brim mine eyes with tears. Corus, on you to them this sweet distressed foe. Herald, how sayst thou, make me master of thy word? Horus, you long for us who pine for you again. Herald, crave the land us who craved it love for love?
Corus, yay, till my brooding heart moaned out with pain. Herald, whenst thy despair that Mars the Army's joy? Corus, soal cure of wrong is silent, Seth the saw? Herald, thy kings afar, couldst thou fear other men? Corus, death had been sweet as out did say but now. Herald, tost true, fate smiles at last. Throughout our toil these many years some chances issued fair, and some I what were chuckered with a curse. But who on earth hath won the bliss of heaven? Through times hold tenor an unbroken wheel? I could atail unfold of toiling oars ill-rest scant landings on a shore rock strewn. All pains all sorrows for our daily doom, and worse and hatefuler our woes on land, for where we couched close by the foam and's wall, the river plain was ever dank with dues, dropped from the sky exuded from the earth,
a curse that clung unto our sodden garb, and hair as horrent as a wild beast fell, why tell the woes of winter when the birds lay stark in stiff, so stern was Ida's snow? For summer scorch, what time the stirless wave sank to its sleep beneath the newnd day's sun? Why mourn old woes, their pain has passed away, and passed away from those who fell all care for evermore to rise and live again? Why some the count of death and render thanks for life by moaning over fate malign? Farewell, along farewell to all our woes, to us the remnant of the host of Greece comes weal beyond all counterpoise of woe, thus boast we rightfully to yonder sun like him far fleeted over sea and land. The our-guive host prevailed to Conquer Troye, and in the temples of the gods of Greece hung up these spoils, a shining sign to time.
Let those who learn this legend bless a right the city in its chieftains, and repay the meat of gratitude to Zeus who willed and rocked the deed, so stands the tale fulfilled. Corus, by words or bear my doubt, for news of good the ear of age have every youth and now, but those within in Clytemnestra's self would feign here all glad thou there ears in mine. Reenter Clytemnestra. Last night, when first the fiery courier came, in sign that Troye is tain and raised to earth, so while the cry of joy my lips gave out that I was chidden, half the beacon-watch made sure unto thy soul the sack of Troye, a very woman, though, whose heart leaps light at wandering rumors, and with words like these they showed me how I strayed, misled of hope. Yet on each shrine I set the sacrifice, and in the strain they held for feminine, went heralds through the city to and fro, with voice of loud proclaim announcing joy, and
in each fame they lit and quenched with wine the spicy perfumes fading in the flame. All is fulfilled, I spare your longer tale the king himself, a non shall tell me all. Remains to think what honor best may greet my Lord, the majesty of Argos' home, what day beams fairer on a woman's eyes than this, whereon she flings the portals wide to hail her lord heaven's shielded home from war. This to my husband that he tarry not, but turn the cities longing to joy, ye let him come, and coming may he find a wife no other than he left her, true and faithful as a watchdog to his home. His foe man's foe and all her duties leel, trusty to keep for ten long years unmarred, the store whereon he set his master's seal. Be still deep-died before ye look to see ill joy ill-fain from other white in me.
Herald, to his fairly sad, thus speaks a noble name, nor speaks a miss when truth informs the boast. Exit Clyde Mnestra. Corus, so has she spoken, be it yours to learn by clear interpreters for a speechless word. Turn to me, Herald, tell me if a non the second well-loved lord of Argos comes, at Menelae is safely sped with you? Herald, alas, brief boon unto my friends at were to flatter them for truth with falsehoods fair. Corus, speak joy if truth be joy, but truth at worst too plainly truth enjoy our hear divorced. Herald, the hero and his bark were wrapped away far from the greetian fleet, to his truth, I say. Corus, whether in all men's sight from Ilyan born, or from the fleet by stress of weather torn, Herald, full on the mark thy shaft of speech doth light, and one short word hath told long woes a right.
Corus, but say, what now of him each comrade saff, what therefore boedings of his life were death? Herald, ask me no more, the truth is known to none, save the earth fostering all surveying sun. Corus, say, by what doom the fleet of grease was driven, how rose, how sank the storm the wrath of heaven? Herald, nay, ill it were, to mar with sorrow's tale the day of blissful news. The gods demand thanksgiving sundard from solicitude. If one as Herald came with roofful face to say, the curse has fallen, and the host gone down to death, and one wide wound has reached the city's heart, and out of many homes, many are cast, and consecrate to death, beneath the double scourge that Ari's loves, the bloody pair, the fire and sword of doom. If such soar burden weighed upon my tongue, to her fit to speak such words as gladdened
fiends, but, coming as he comes who bringeth news of safe return from toil, and issues fair, to men rejoicing in a wheel restored, dare eye to dash good words with ill, and say how the gods anger smote the Greeks in storm? For fire and sea the airs held bitter feud, now swore conspiracy and pledged their faith, wasting the archives worn with toil and war. Great and great horror of the rising wave came or us, and the blast that blow from thrace clashed ship with ship, and some with plunging prowl through scutting drifts of spray and raving storm vanished, as strays by some ill-shepard driven. And when at length the sun rose bright, we saw the aegean sea-field flaked with flowers of death, corpses of greece and men and shattered hulls. For us indeed some god as well I deem no human power laid hand upon our helm, snatched us or prayed us from the powers of air, and brought our bark through all unharmed in
hull, and saving fortune sat and steered us fair so that no surge should gulf us deep in brine, nor grind our keel upon a rocky shore. So scaped we death that lurks beneath the sea, but under days white light, mistrustful all of fortune smile, we sat and brooded deep, shepherds for lorn of thoughts that wandered wild or this new wall. For smitten was our host and lost as ashes scattered from the pyre, of whom if any draw his life-breath yet be well assured he deems of us as dead, as we of him know other fate forebode but heaven save all, if men alayas live he will not tarry but will surely come. Or if anywhere the high sun's ray describes him upon earth preserved by Zeus, who wills not yet to wipe his race away, hope still there is that homework he may win, enough, thou hast the truth unto the end. Corus, say, from whose lips the pressage fell, who read the future all too well and named
her in her natal hour, hell in the bride with war for dour, was one of the invisible guiding his tongue with prescient power, on fleet and host in citadel, war sprung from her and death did lower, when from the bridebeds fine spun veil she to the zeppers spread her sail. Strong blue the breeze, the surge closed or the clove and track of keel and ore, but while she fled their drove along fast in her wake a mighty throng, a thirst for blood, a thirst for war, forward in fell pursuit they sprung, then lept on simoys bank ashore the leafy coppuses among no rangers they have wooden field but huntsmen of the sword and shield. Heaven's jealousy that works its will, sped thus on Troy its destined ill, well named at once the bride in bane, and loud rang out the bridal strain, but they to whom that song befell did turn an on to tears again.
Zeus tarries, but avenges still the husbands wrong the household stain. He the hearth's lord brooks not to see its outraged hospitality. Even now and in far other tone Troy chants her dourge of mighty moan, woe upon Paris, woe and hate, who wooed his country's doom for mate, this is the birthing of the groan, where with she wails disconsolate the blood so many of her own have poured in vain to fend her fate. Troy thou hast fed and freed to roam a lion cub within thy home, a suckling creature newly tamed from mother's teeth still fully fain of nursing care and oft caressed within the arms upon the breast, even as an infant has it lain, or fawns and licks by hunger pressed the hand that will assuage its pain. In life's young dawn a well-loved guest, a fondling for the children's play, a joy unto the old and gray. But waxing time and growth betrays the bloodthirst of the lion race, and for the house's fostering
care unbidden all it rebels there, and bloody recompense repays rent flesh of kind its talons tear, a mighty beast that slays and slays and marrs with blood the household fare, a god sent past invincible, a minister of fate and hell. Even so to Ilyan City came by stealth, a spirit as a windless seas and skies, a gentle phantom form of joy and wealth with love soft arrows speeding from its eyes, loves rose whose thorn death pierced the soul in subtle wise. Ah, well a day, the bitter bridle bed, when the fair mischief lay by parasite, what curse on palace and on people sped with her the fury sent on primes pride, by angered Zeus, what tears of many a widowed bride. Long, long ago to mortals this was told, how sweet security in blissful state have curses
for their children so man hold, and for the man of all too prosperous fate springs from a bitter seed some woe insatiate, alone, alone, I deem far otherwise, not blissful nor wealth it is but impious deed from which that after-growth of ill-doth rise, woe springs from wrong, the plant is like the seed, while right in honor's house doth its own likeness breed. Some past impiety, some gray old crime, breeds the young curse that wantons in our ill, early or late when haps the appointed time, and out of light brings power of darkness still, a master fiend of foe unseen invincible, a pride occurs that broods upon the race, and home in which dark Ate holds her sway, since childen woes that wears its parent's face, while right in smoky crib shines clear as day, and decks with wheel his life who walks
the righteous way. From gilded holes that hands polluted rays, right turns away with proud averted eyes, and above the wealth men stamp amnest with praise, heedless to poorer, holier temples' highs, and two fates' goal guides all in its appointed wise, hailed to the chief of atrius race, returning proud from choice of dude, how shall I greet thy conquering face, how nor a fulsome praise of trude nor stint the need of gratitude. For mortal men who fall to ill take little heat of open truth but seek unto its semblance still, the show of weeping end of root to the forelorn will all men pay, but of the grief their eyes display not to the heart doth pierce its way, and with the joy as they beguile their lips into a fainted smile and force a joy unfelt the while, but he who has a shepherd wise doth know his flock, can air misread truth in the falsehood of his eyes,
who veils beneath a kindly guise of lukewarm love, indeed. And thou art leader, when of your thou betest grease go forth to war for Hellen's sake, I dare avow that then I held thee not as now, that to my vision thou did seem dyed in the hues of disastain, I held thee for a pilot ill and reckless of thy proper will, endowing others doomed to die with vain and forced audacity. Now from my heart, ungrudgingly, to those that wrought this word be said, well, fall the labor ye have sped, let time and search, O King, declare what men within thy cities bound were loyal to the kingdom's care and who were faithless found. Enter Agamemnon in a chariot accompanied by Cassandra, he speaks without descending. Agamemnon, first as is meet, a king's all hail be said to Argos and the gods that guard
the land, gods who with me availed to speed us home, with me availed to ring from Prime's town the dew of justice, in the court of heaven the gods in conclave sat and judged the cause. Not from a pleader's tongue, and that the clothes unanimous into the urn of doom, this sentence gave, on Ilyan and her men, death, and where hope drew nigh to pardon's urn, no hand there was to cast a vote therein. And still the smoke of fallen Ilyan rises inside of all men, and the flame of Ate's Heccatume is living yet, and where the towers and dusty ashes sink, rise the rich fumes of pomp and wealth consumed. For this must all men pay unto the gods the meat of mindful hearts and gratitude. For by our hands the meshes of revenge closed on the prey, and for one woman's sake, Troy trodden by the archived monster lies, the full, the shielded band that lept the wall,
what time with autumn sank the pliades, ye or the fencing wall a lion spraying ravening, and lapped his fill of blood of kings. Such prelude spoken to the gods in full to you I turn, and to the hidden thing where of ye spake but now, and in that thought I am as you, and what ye say, say aye. For few are they who have such inborn grace as to look up with love and envy not, when stands another on the height of will, deep in his heart, whom jealousy hath seized for poison lurking doth enhance his load, for now beneath his proper woes he chafes, and some eyes with all to see another's will. I speak not idly, but from knowledge shore there be who want an utter loyalty, that is, but as the ghost of friendship dead, a shadow in a glass of faith gone by. One only, he who went reluctant forth across the seas with me, Odysseus, he was loyal unto
me with strength and will, a trusty trace-horth bound unto my car. Thus be he yet beneath the light of day, or dead as well I fear, I speak his praise. Lastly, what air be due to men or gods with joint debate in public counsel held, we will decide and wearily contrive that all which now as well may so abide, for that which happily needs the healer's art, that will we medicine discerning well if coterie or knife be fit the time. Now, to my palace and the shrines of home I will pass in and greet you first and fair, ye gods who bade me forth and home again, and long made victory tarry in my train. Enter Clytemnestra, followed by maidens bearing purple robes. Clytemnestra, old men of Argos leeches of our realm, shame shall not bid me shrink, lest ye should see the love I bear my lord, such blushing fear dyes at the last from hearts
of humankind. From my own soul and from no alien lips, I know and will reveal the life I bore, reluctant through the lingering live-long years, the while my lord beleaguered Iliens' wall. First, that a wife sat sunnered from her lord in widowed solitude was utter woe, and woe to hear how rumours many tongues all bow to evil, woe when he who came and he who followed spake of ill on ill, keening lost, lost, all lost, through hall and bower. Had this my husband met so many wounds as by a thousand channels rumour told, no network air was full of holes as he, had he been slain as often as tidings came that he was dead, he well might boast to now a second gerryion of triple-frame, with triple robe of earth above him laid, for that below no matter triply dead, dead by one death for every form he bore.
And thus distraught by news of wrath and woe, off for self-slaughter had I slung the news, but others wrenched it from my neck away, hence haps it that, or resties, vine and mine, the pledge and symbol of our wedded trove stands not beside us now as he should stand. Nor marvel thou at this, he dwells with one who guards him loyally, to his focus-king, strofius, who warn me airs, be think thee queen, but woes of doubtful issue well may fall, by lord and daily jeopardy at Troy, while here a populous uncurbed make-ry, down with the counsel down, be think thee too, to's the world's way to set a harder heel on fallen power. For thy child's absence, then, such mine excuse, no wily afterthought, for me long since the gushing fount of tears is wept away, no drop is left to shed, dim are the eyes that ever watch till dawn, weeping the bail-fire piled for thy return, night after night unkindled.
If I slept each sound, the tiny humming of a net roused me again, again, from fitful dreams, wherein I felt these smitten, saw these slain, thrice for each moment of mine hour of sleep. All this I bore, and now released from woe, I hail my lord as watchdog of a fold, as saving stay-rope of a storm-toss ship, as column stout that holds the roofal-off, as only child unto a sire bereaved, as land beheld past hope by crews for lawn, as sunshine fair when tempest wrath has passed, as gushing spring to thirsty waferer, so sweet it is to scape the press of pain, with such salute I bid my husband hail, nor heaven be wroth therewith, for long and hard I bore that iron of old. Sweet lord, step forth, step from thy car, I pray, nay, not on earth, plant the proud foot-o-king that trawred down Troy, women, why Terry ye whose task it is to spread your
monarch's path with tapestry, swift, swift with purple strew his passage-fair, that justice lead him to a home at last he scarcely looked to see. For what remains zeal unsubdued by sleeps on nerve my hand to work as right and as the gods command. End of Part 2, Recording by X Patriot in Bangor, Maine. Part 3 of Agamemnon by Iskolas, translated by Edmund Deutsch-Anderson Morsehead, 1849 to 1912. This Librivaks recording is in the public domain, recording by X Patriot in Bangor, Maine. Part 3 Agamemnon, Daughter of Leda, watcher or my home, thy greeting well befits mine absent slum, for late and hardly has it reached its end.
Know that the praise which honor bids us crave must come from others lips not from our own. Say too that not in fashion feminine thou make a warrior's pathway delicate, not unto me as to some eastern lord bowing thyself to earth to make homage loud, strew not this purple, that shall make each sepun arrogant, such pompy seems the gods not me, immortal man to set his foot on these rich dyes, I hold such pride in fear, and bid thee honor me as man, not God, fear not, such footcloths and all gods apart, loud from the trump of fame my name is blown, best gift of heaven it is in glory's hour to think they're on with sobreness, and thou, be think thee of the adage, call none blessed, till peaceful death have crowned the life of will. As said, I feign would fare unvexed by fear, Clydeum Nestra, nay, but unsayeth, fort not thou my will, Agamemnon, no I have said, and will not mar my word, Clydeum Nestra, was
it fear made this meekness to the gods? Agamemnon, if cause be cause to his mind for this resolve, Clydeum Nestra, what thinks thou in thy place had primed on? Agamemnon, he surely would have walked on broydered robes. Clydeum Nestra, then fear not thou the voice of human blame? Agamemnon, yet mighty is the murmur of a crowd. Clydeum Nestra, shrink not from envy, aponage of bliss. Agamemnon, war is not woman's part nor war of words. Agamemnon, yet happy victor is well may yield therein. Agamemnon, does crave for triumph in this petty strife? Clydeum Nestra yield of thy grace permit me to prevail. Agamemnon, then if thou wilt, let someone stoop to lose swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot, in stepping thus upon the seas rich die, I pray, let none among the gods look down
with jealous eye on me, reluctant all to trample thus in morrow thing of price, wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth, enough hereof, and for the stranger made lead her within, but gently. God on high looks graciously on him, whose triumphs hour has made not pitiless, none willingly wear the slaves' yoke, and she, the prize and flower of all we won, comes hither in my train, gift of the army to its chief and lord. Now since in this my will bows down to thine, I will pass in on purples to my home. Clydeum Nestra, as see there is, and who shall stay at springs, and deep within its breast a mighty store precious as silver of the purple die, whereby the dipped robe duff its tint renew, enough of such o'king within thy halls their lies, a store that cannot fail, but I, I would have gladly vowed into the gods cost of a thousand garments trodden thus, and
once the oracles such gift required, contriving ransom for thy life preserved, from while the stock is firm the foliage climbs spreading a shade, what time the dog-star glows, and thou, returning to thine hearth and home, art as a genial warmth in winter hours, or as a coolness when the lord of heaven mellows the juice within the bitter grape, such boons and more duff bring into a home the present footstep of its proper lord, Zeus, Zeus fulfillments lord, my vows fulfill, and what so air it be, work forth I will. Exaunt all but Cassandra and the chorus, chorus, wherefore forever on the wings of fear, hovers a vision drear before my boating heart, a strain, unbidden and unwelcome thrills mine ear, a racular of pain, not as of old upon my bosom's throne sits confidence to spurn such
fears, like dreams we know not to discern, old, old, and gray long since the time has grown, which saw the linked cables more the fleet when he rusted came to Ilyan's sandy shore, and now mine eyes and not another sea their safe return, yet nonetheless in me the inner spirit sings a boating song, self-prompted sings the fury strain and seeks and seeks in vain to hope and to be strong. Ah, to some end of fate, unseen, unguessed, are these wild throbbings of my heart enbrest, yea of some dune they tell each pulse anel, leaf, leaf I wear that all to unfulfilment's hidden realm might fall, to far, to far our mortal spirit's stride, grasping at utter wheel unsatisfied, till the fell curse that dwelleth hard beside thrust down the sundering wall, to fair they blow the gales that waft our bark,
unfortunate tide. Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive upon the hidden rock the reef of woe, then if the hand of caution wearily sling forth into the sea, part of the freight, lust all should sink below from the deep death it saves the bark, even so. Dune laden though it be, once more may rise his household who is timely wise. How off the famine stricken field is saved by God's large gift the new years yield, but blood of man once spilled once at his feet shed forth, and darkening the plain nor chant nor charm can call it back again. So Zeus hath willed, else had he spared the leach asclepious, skilled to bring men from the dead, the hand devided smite himself with death, a warning and a sign. Ah me, if fate ordained of old held not the will of God's constrained control, helpless to usword
and apart, swifter than speech my heart had poured its pressage out. Now fretting, chafing in the dark of doubt, tis hopeless to unfold truth, from fear's tangled skin, and yearning to proclaim its thought my soul is prophecy inflamed. Reenter Clydemonestra, get thee within thou too, Cassandra, go, for Zeus to thee in gracious mercy grants to share the sprinklings of the lustful bowl beside the altar of his guardianship slave among many slaves. What? Haughty still. Step from the car, Althminas' son to said, was sold perforce and bore the yoke of old. I, hard it is, but if such fate befall, tis a fair chance to serve within a home of ancient wealth and power. An upstart, Lord, to whom wealth's harvest came beyond his hope, is as a lion to his slaves in all exceeding fierce, immodera in sway, pass in, thou hearst what our ways will be.
Chorus, clear unto thee, O maid, is her command, but thou, within the toils of fate thou art, if such thy will I urge thee to obey. Yet I misdoubt thou dust nor hear nor heed. Chorus, I want, unless like swallows she doth use, some strange barbarian tongue from oversee, my words must speak persuasion to her soul. Chorus, obey, there is no gentler way than this, step from the car's high seat and follow her. Chorus, I want, Cladmonestra, to this bootless waiting herewithout, I will not stay, beside the central shrine the victims stand, prepared for knife and fire, offerings from hearts beyond all hope made glad. Thou, if thou wreckest ought of my command, for well done soon, but if thy scents be shut from these my words, let thy barbarian hand fulfill by gesture the
default of speech. Chorus, no native is she, thus to read thy words unated, like some wild thing of the wood, new trapped behold, she shrinks and glairs on thee. Cladmonestra, to his madness and the rule of mine distraught, since she beheld her city-syncing fire, in hither comes nor brooks the bit until in foam and blood, her raffly-champed away, see to her, unqueenly toes for me, unheeded thus to cast away my words. Cladmonestra, Chorus, but with me pity sits in anger's place, poor maiden, come thou from the car, no way there is but this, take up thy servitude. Cassandra, woe, woe alas, earth, mother, earth, and thou appalo, appalo, Chorus, peace, shriek not to the bright prophetic god, who will not brook the supplients of woe.
Cassandra, woe, woe alas, earth, mother, earth, and thou appalo, appalo, Chorus, hark, with wild curse she calls anew on him, who stands far off and loathes the voice of whale. Cassandra, appalo, appalo, God of all ways but only deaths to me once and again, oh thou destroyer named, thou hast destroyed me thou my love of old, Chorus, she grows presageful of her woes to gun, slave though she be in stink with prophecy. Cassandra, appalo, appalo, God of all ways but only deaths to me, oh thou appalo, thou destroyer named what way has led me to what evil home. This, no stout not, the home of atrious race, take these my words for sooth and ask no more. Cassandra, home cursed of God, bear witness unto me ye visioned woes within, the bloodstained
hands of them that smite their kin, the strangling noose, and spattered ore with human blood the reeking floor. Chorus, how like a sleuth-hound, questing on the track, keen scented unto blood and death, she hives. Cassandra, oh, can the ghostly guidance fail, whereby my prophet's soul is onward's lead? Look, for there fleshed the specter children whale, their sodden limbs on which their father fed. Chorus, long since we knew of thy prophetic fame, but for those deeds we seek no prophet's tongue. Cassandra, God, to his another crime, worse than the storied woe of olden time, cureless and poor, that one is plotting here, a shaming death for those that should be dear. Alas, and far away in foreign land, he that should help that stand. Chorus, I knew the old tales, the city rings with all, but now thy speech is dark beyond
my kin. Cassandra, oh, wretch, oh, purpose fell, thou, for thy wedded lord the cleansing wave has poured a treacherous welcome, how this equal tell, to soon to will come to soon, for now even now she smites him, blow on blow. Chorus, riddles beyond my read, I peer in vain through the dim films that screen the prophecy. Cassandra, God, a new sight, a net, a snare of hell set by her hand, herself a snare more fell, a wedded wife she slays her lord, helped by another hand. He powers whose hate of atrious home no blood can satiate, raise the wild cry above the sacrifice of bored. Chorus, why bitist thou some fiend, I know not whom shriek or the house, behind his no cheering word, back to my heart and frozen fear I feel my waning lifeblood run, the blood
that round the wounding steel ebbs slow as sink's life's parting sun, swift, swift and sure some woe comes pressing on. Cassandra, away, away, keep him away, the monarch of the herd the pastures pride far from his mate, in treacherous wrath, muffling his swore the horns with secret scathe, she goers his fenseless side, hark, in the brimming bath the heavy plash the dying cry, hark, in the labor, hark, he falls by treachery. Chorus, I read a mist dark saying such as thine, yet something warns me that they tell of ill, oh dark prophetic speech, ill tidings dust thou teach ever to mortals here below, ever some tale of awe and woe through all thy windings manifold do we unrittle and unfold, Cassandra, oh well a day, the cup of agony whereof I chant, foams with a draft for me,
oh Lord, all leader thou hast led me here, was it but to die with thee whose doom is near? Chorus, distraught thou art, divinely stirred, and wailest for thy self-attuneless lay, as pitius as the ceaseless tale, wherewith the brown melodious bird doth ever itus, itus wail, deep-boward in sorrow, all his little lifetimes day. Cassandra, oh for thy fate, oh shrill voice, night and gale, some solid for thy woes did heaven afford, clothe thee with soft brown plumes, and life apart from wail, but for my death is edge the double-biting sword. Chorus, what pangs are these, what fruitless pains sent on thee from unhigh, thou chantest terror's frantic strain, yet in shrill measured melody, how thus unaring kens thou sweep along the prophet's path of boating song?
Cassandra, woe, Paris, woe on thee, thy bridal joy was death and fire upon thy race and Troy, and woe for thee, scumanders flood, beside thy banks, O river fair, I grew and tender nursing care, from childhood unto maidenhood, now not by thine, but by coquitas stream and acorons banks shall ring my boating screen. Chorus, two plain is all, two plain, a child might read a right thy fateful strain, deep in my heart their piercing fang, terror and sorrow set, the while I heard that pitiest low tender word, yet to mine ear and heart a crushing pang. Cassandra, woe for my city, woe for Ilians fall, father how off with sanguine stain, streamed on thine altar stone the blood of cattle, slain that heaven-night guard our wall, but all was shed in vain, low lie the shattered towers were as they fell, and I, ah, burning heart,
shall soon lie low as well. Chorus, of sorrow is thy song, of sorrow still, alas, what power of ill sits heavy on thy heart, and bids thee tell in tears a perfect moan thy deadly tale. And woe, I know not what, must close thy pitiest well. Cassandra, list, for no more the presage of my soul, bride-like, shall peer from its secluding veil, but as the morning wind blows clear the east, more bright shall blow the wind of prophecy, and as against the low bright line of dawn heaves high and higher yet the rolling wave, so in the clearing skies of prescience dawns on my soul a further deadlier woe, and I will speak, but in dark speech no more. Bear witness ye, and follow at my side, I sent the trail of blood shed long ago, within this house acquire abidingly chants in harsh unison the chant of ill.
Yay, and they drink, for more in hardened joy, man's blood for wine and revel in the holes, departing never furies of the home they sit within, they chant the primal curse, each spitting hatred on that crime of old, the brothers couch the love incestuous that brought forth hatred to the ravisher. Say, is my speech, or wild and airing now, or doth its arrow cleave the mark indeed? They called me once the prophetess of lies, the wandering hagg, the pest of every door, a test ye now, she knows in very sooth the house's curse, the storied infamy. Chorus, yet how should oath, how loyally so air I swear it ought avail thee? In good sooth my wonder meets thy claim, I stand amazed that thou, a maiden born beyond the seas, dust as a native no and teller right, tales of a city of an alien tongue.
Cassandra, that is my power, a boon Apollo gave. Chorus, God though he were yearning for mortal maid. Cassandra, I, what seemed shame of old is shame no more. Chorus, such finer sense, suits not with slavery. Cassandra, he strove to win me panting for my love. Chorus, came ye by compact unto bridled joys. Cassandra, nay, for I plighted troath and foiled the God. Chorus, worth thou already dowered with precious? Cassandra, ye, prophetess to joy of all her doom. Chorus, how lefty then Apollo's wrath unscathed? Cassandra, I, false to him, seen prophet false to all. Chorus, not so, to us at least thy word seemed sooth. Chorus, wonder, woe for me, woe, again the agony.
Dread pain that sees the future all too well, with ghastly praeludes, whirls and racks my soul. Behold ye yonder in the palace roof the specter children's sitting. Look such things as dreams are made on, phantoms as of babes, horrible shadows that a kinsman's hand have marked with murder and their arms are full. A roofal burdens see they hold them up, the entrails upon which their father fed. For this, for this, I say, their plots revenge a coward lion couching in the lair, guarding the gate against my master's foot. My master mine, I bear the slaves yoke now, and he the lord of ships who trod down Troy, knows not the faunting treachery of tongue of this thing falls in dog-like. How her speech gloses and sleakes her purpose till she win by ill fate's favor, the desired chance, moving like Ate to a secret end.
Oh, all the soul, the woman slays her lord. Woman, what loathsome monster of the earth were fit comparison? The double snake or skillah where she dwells, the seamens bane, girt round about with rocks, some hagg of hell, raving a trussless curse upon her kin? Mark, even now she cries exultingly, the vengeful cry that tells a battle turned. How fame foresoothed greet her chief restored. Nay then, believe me not, what skills believe or disbelief, fate works its will, and thou willt see and say in Ruth her tale was true. Corus, ah, Tis thiesti's feast on kindred flesh, I guess her meaning, and with horror thrill, hearing no shadowed hint of the orr true tale, but its full hatefulness, yet for the rest far from the track I roam in no no more. Cassandra, his aga men nuns doom thou shalt behold.
Corus, peace hapless woman, to thy boating words. Cassandra, far from my speech stands he whose sains and saves. Corus, I were such doom at hand which God forbid. Cassandra, thou prayest idly, these moves swift to slay. Corus, what man prepares a deed of such despite. Cassandra, fool, thus to read a mismaned oracles. Corus, divisor and divisor dark to me. Cassandra, dark, all too well I speak the Greciantong. Corus, I, but in thine, is in Apollo's strains, familiar as the tongue but dark the thought. Cassandra, ah, ah, the fire, it waxes near me now. Whoa, whoa for me Apollo of the dawn. Low how the woman thing the lioness couched with the wolf, her noble mate afar will slay
me, slay for lorn. Ye like some witch she drugs the cup of wrath, that slays her lord with double death, his recompense for me. I, too, for me the prey he bore from Troy, that she had sworn his death and edged the steel. Ye wands, ye wreaths that cling around my neck, ye showed me prophetess yet scorned of all. I stamp you into death or air I die, down to destruction, thus I stand revenge, go crown some other with a prophet's woe. Look at his he, it is Apollo's self, rending from me the prophet robe he gave. God, while I wore it yet thou sauce me mock, there at my home by each malicious mouth, to all in each an undivided scorn, the name alike in fate of witch and cheat. Whoa, poverty and famine, all I bore. And at this last the God hath brought me here unto death's toils, and what his love had
made, his hate unnakes me now. And I shall stand not now before the altar of my home, but me a slaughterhouse and block of blood shall see hune down a reeking sacrifice. Yet shall the gods have heed of me who die, for by their will shall one requite my doom. He to avenge my father's blood out poured shall smite and slay with matricidal hand. I, he shall come, though far away he roam a banished wanderer in a stranger's land, to crown his kindreds edifice of ill, called home to vengeance by his father's fall, thus have the high gods sworn in shall fulfill. And now, why mourn I, tearing on earth, since first mine Ilyan has found its fate and I be held, and those who won the wall pass to such issue as the gods ordain. I too will pass, and like them dare to die, turns and looks upon the palace door.
Whil of Hades, thus I bid thee hail, grant me one boon a swift and mortal stroke, that all unrun by pain with ebbing blood shed forth and quiet death I close my eyes. Corus, made of mysterious woes, mysterious lore, long was thy prophecy, but if a right thou readest all thy fate how thus unscared, thus thou approach the altar of thy doom, as fronts the knife some victim have in control. Cassandra, friends, there is no avoidance in delay. Corus, yet who delays the longest is the gain. Cassandra, the day has come, flight were small gain to me. Corus, oh brave endurance of a sole result. Cassandra, that were ill praise for those of happier doom. Corus, old fame is happy even famous death.
Cassandra, usire, a brethren famous once were ye, she moves to enter the house and starts back. Corus, what fear is this that scares thee from the house? Cassandra, pah! What is this cry? Some dark despair of soul? Cassandra, pah! The house fumes with stench and spilt the blood. Corus, how, to the smell of household offerings? Cassandra, to his rank as charnels sent from open graves? Corus, thou canst not mean the scented Syrian nard? Cassandra, nay, let me pass within to cry aloud the monarch's fate and mine, enough of life, pah, friends, bear to me witness since I fall in death, that not as birds that shun the bush and scream, my moan and idle terror. This attest, when for my death's revenge another dies, a woman for a woman and a man
falls, for a man ill-wetted to his curse grant me this boon, the last before I die. Corus, brave to the last, I mourn thy doom for seen. Cassandra, once more, one utterance but not of whale, though for my death and then I speak no more, son, thou whose beam I shall not see again to thee I cry, that those whom vengeance calls to slay their kindred slayers, quit with all the death of me, the slave, the fenceless prey. Ah, state of mortal men, in time of will align a shadow, and if ill-fatefall one wet sponge sweep wipes all our trace away, and this idine less pitius of the twain, exit into the palace. End of Part 3, recording by ex-patriot in Bangor main.
Part 4 of Agamemnon by Iskolas, translated by Edmund Deutsch Anderson Morsehead, 1849-1912. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by ex-patriot in Bangor main. Part 4. Corus, to true it is, our mortal state with blisses never satiate, and none before the palace high and stately of prosperity, cries to us with a voice of fear, away, to his ill-to-enter here. Low, this our Lord hath trunned down by grace of heaven-old primes-town. And praised as God, he stands once more on Argos shore. Yet now, if blood shed long ago cries out that other blood shall flow, his lifeblood, his, to pay again the stern requital of the slain, peace to that braggart's vanting vain, who, having heard the chief-tons tale, yet boasts of bliss untouched by bail, allowed
cry from within, voice of Agamemnon, oh, I am sped, a deep, a mortal blow, Corus, listen, listen, who is screaming as in mortal agony, voice of Agamemnon, oh, oh, again, another blow, Corus, the bloody act is over, I have heard the monarch cry, let us swiftly take some counsel, lest we too be doomed to die. One of the Corus, his best I judge, allowed for aid to call, oh, loyal Argos, to the palace all, another, better I deen ourselves to bear the aid, and drag the deed to light while drips the blade. Another such will is mine, and what thou sayest I say, swiftly to act, the time Brooks no delay. Another I, for his plain, this proud of their song, foretells its clothes in tyranny and wrong. Another, behold, we tarry, but thy name delay, they spurn and press with sleepless hand
to slay. Another, I know not what to or well to counsel now, who wills to act as his to counsel how. Another, thy doubt is mine, for when a man is slain, I have no words to bring his life again. Another, what, in for life's sake, bow us to obey these house defilers and their tyrant sway. Another, unmanly doomed, to or better far to die, death is a gentler lord than tyranny. Another, think well, must cry or sign of woe or pain, fix our conclusion that the chief is slain. Another, such talk befits us when the deed we see, conjectured dwells afar from certainty. Leader of the chorus, I read one will from many a diverse word, to know a right, how stands it with our lord. The scene opens, disclosing Clyde Mnestra, who comes forward. The body of Agamemnon lies muffled in a long robe, within a silver-sided labor, the
corpse of Cassandra is laid beside him. Clyde Mnestra, ho ye who heard me speak so long and off, the glowsing word that led me to my will, hear how I shrink not to one say at all, how else should one who willeth to require evil for evil to an enemy disguised as friend weave the mish straightly round him, not to be overleaped a net of doom. This is the summon issue of old strife, of me deep pondered and at length fulfilled, all is about, and as I smote I stand with foot-set firm upon a finished thing. I turn not to denial, thus I wrought so that he could nor flee nor ward his doom. Even as the trample hymns a scaly shawl, I trapped him with an extra-cable toils, the ill-abundance of a baffling robe, then smote him once again, and at each wound he cried aloud, then as in death relaxed each limb and sank to earth.
And as he lay once more I smote him with the last third blow, sacred to Hades' savior of the dead, and thus he fell, and as he passed away, spirit with body-chafed, each dying breath flown from his breast, swift bubbling jets of gore, and the dark sprinklings of the rain of blood fell upon me, and I was feigned to feel that dew, not sweeter as the rain of heaven to Cornland, when the green sheath teams with grain. Elders of Argos, since the things stand so I bid you to rejoice, if such your will, rejoice or not, I want and praise the deed, and while I wean, if seemingly it could be, to or not ill-done to pour libations here, justly, I more than justly on his corpse, who held his home with curses as with wine, and thus returned to drain the cup he filled. Corus, I marvel at thy tongue's audacity to want thus loudly or a husband's slain.
Climbed him nestra, he hold me as a woman weak of will, and strive to sway me, but my heart is stout. Nor fears to speak its uttermost to you, albeit you know its message, praise or blame, even as ye list, I reck not of your words. Low, at my feet lies agamem non-slan, my husband once, and him this hand of mine a right contriver, fashion for his death, behold the deed. Corus, woman, what deadly birth, what venomed essence of the earth, or dark distillment of the wave to thee such passion gave, nerving thine hand to set upon thy brow this burning crown, the curses of thy land. Our king by thee cut off, hewn down, go forth they cry, accursed in forlorn to hate and scorn. Climbed him nestra, oh ye just men who speak my sentence now, the city's hate, the
ban of all my realm. He had no voice of old to launch such doom on him, my husband, when he held as light my daughter's life as that of sheep or goat. Convict him from the thronging fleecey fold, ye slew and sacrifice his child in mine, the well-loved issue of my travel pains to lull and lay the gales that blew from thrace, that deed of his, I say, that stain and shame had rightly been atone by banishment. But ye, who then were dumb, are stern to judge this deed of mine that doth affront your ears, storm out your threats, yet knowing this forsooth that I am ready if you're hand prevailed as mine now doth to bow beneath your sway. If God say nay it shall be yours to learn by chastismen a late humility, chorus, bold as thy craft, and proud thy confidence thy wanting loud, thy soul that chose a murderous
fate is all with blood elate, madden to know the blood not yet avenge, the damnnid spot crins and upon thy brow. But fate prepares for thee thy lot, smitten as thou did smite without a friend to meet thine end, Clytemnestra, hear them the sanction of the oath I swear, by the great vengeance for my murdered child, by Ate, by the fury unto whom this man lies sacrificed by hand of mine. I do not look to tread the hull of fear, while in this hearth in home of mine their burns a light of love, I guess thus, as of old loyal, a stowlward shield of confidence, as true to me as this slain man was false, wronging his wife with paramores at Troy. Fresh from the kiss of each Christseus there, behold him dead, behold his captive prize, cirrus and harlot, comfort of his bed, true prophetess, true paramore, I want the sea-bent
was not closer to the flesh, full off of every roer than was she, see, ill they did, and ill requite some now, his death ye know, she as a dying swan sang her last dirge, and lies as air she lay, close to his side, and to my couch has left, a sweet new taste of joys that no no fear. For us, oh, woe and well a day, I would that fate not bearing agony too great, nor stretching me too long on couch of pain, would bid mine eyelids keep the morning-less and unawakening sleep. For life is weary now my Lord is slain, the gracious among kings, hard fate of old he bore, and many grievous things, and for a woman's sake on Ilyan land, now it's his life hewn down and by a woman's hand. Oh Helen, oh infatuate soul, who bade the tides of battle-roll or awhelming thousands'
life on life, neith Ilyans' wall, and now lies dead the lord of all. The blossom of thy storied sin bears blood's inexpeable stain, oh thou that airst these holes within, wort unto all a rock of strife, a husband's bane. Clight of nestra, peace, pray not thou for death as though thine heart was wellen beneath this woe, nor turn thy wrath aside to ban the name of Helen, nor recall how she, one bane of many a man, sent down to death the adenay in lords to sleep at Troy the sleep of swords, and rock the woe that shattered all. Corus, fiend of the race, that swoop is fell upon the double-stock of tantalists, lording it or me by a woman's will, stern manful and imperious, a bitter sway to me, thy very form I see, like some grim raven, perched upon the slain, exulting or the crime allowed
in tuneless strain. Clight of nestra, right was that word, thou nameest well the brooding race feigned, triply fell, from him it is that murder's thirst, blood lapping inwardly as nursed, airtime the ancient scar can sane, new blood comes welling forth again. Corus, grim is his wrath, and heavy on our home that fiend of whom thy voice is cried, alas and omen cry of woe unsatisfied, in all devouring doom, ah woe, ah Zeus, from Zeus all things befall, Zeus the high cause and finisher of all, Lord of our mortal state by him are willed all things, by him fulfilled, yet oh my king, my king no more, what words to say what tears to pour can tell my love for thee, the spider web of treachery she woe been wound thy life around and low I see thee lie, and through a coward in pious wound
pant forth thy life and die, a death of shame, ah woe on woe, a treacherous hand a cleaving blow, Clight of nestra, my guilt thou harpest or and or, I bid thee reckon me no more as agamemnon spouse, the old avenger stern of mood for atrius in his feast of blood hath struck the Lord of atrius house, and in the semblance of his wife the king hath slain, yea, for the murdered children's life achieved in's in requital tame. Corus, thou guiltless of this murder, thou, who dares such thought of thou, yet it may be wroth for the parents deed, the fiend hath opened thee to slay the sun, dark ares God of death is pressing on through streams of blood by kindred shed, exacting thee a comp for children dead, for clotted blood for flesh on which their sire did feed. Yet oh my king, my king no more, what words to say what tears to pour can tell my love
for thee. The spider web of treachery she woven wound thy life around, and low I see thee lie, and through a coward impious wound pant forth thy life and die. A death of shame, awow on woe, a treacherous hand a cleaving blow. Clight of nestra, I deem not that the death he died had over much of shame, for this was he who did provide foul wrong unto his house in name. His daughter blossom of my wound, he gave unto a deadly doom, if a gay nia child of tears, and as he wrought, even so he fares, nor be his vaunt to loud in hell, for by the sword his sin he wrought, and by the sword himself is brought among the dead to dwell. For us, ah, wither shall I fly, for all in ruin sinks that kingly hall, nor swift device nor shift of thought have I to scape its foe. A little while the gentler raindrops fail, I stand distraught a ghastly interval till
on the roof-tree rings the bursting hail of blood and doom. Even now fate wets the steel on wet stones new and deadlier than of old, the steel that smites in justice hold another death to deal. Oh, earth, that I had lain at rest and lapped for ever at thy breast, air I had seen my chieftain fall within the labored silver wall, low lying on dishonored beer, and who shall give him sepulchre, and who the whale of sorrow pour, woman, to his thy no more, a graceless gift unto his shade such tribute by his murderous paid. Strive not thus wrongly to atone the impious deed thy hand hath done, who above the god-like chief shall weep the tears of loyal grief, who speak above his lowly grade the last sad praises of the brave. Clitamnestra, peace, for such task is none of thine, by me he fell, by me he died, and
now his burial rights be mine, yet from these halls no mourners trench shall celebrate his obsequies, only by Akron's rolling tide his child shall spring unto his side, and in a daughter's loving wise shall clasp and kiss him once again. Chorus, low sin by sin, and sorrow dog by sorrow, and who the end can know, the slayer of today shall die tomorrow, the wage of wrong is woe, while time shall be while Zeus in heaven is Lord, his law is fixed and stern. On him that wrought shall vengeance be outpoured, the tides of doom return, the children of the curse abide within these halls of high estate, and none can rent from off the home of sin the clinging grasp of fate. Clitamnestra, now walks thy word of right to tell this ancient truth of oracle, but I with vows of Seuth will pray to him the power that holdeth sway or all the race of Pleistonese,
though dark the deed and deep the guilt, with this last blood my hands have spilt, I pray thee let thine anger cease. I pray thee pass from us away to some new race in other lands there if thou wilt, to wrong and slay, the lives of men by kindred hands. For me, to is all sufficient meed, the little wealth or power were one, so I can say to his past and done, the bloody lust and murderous, the inborn frenzy of our house is ended by my deed. Enter, I guess thus. I guess thus, dawn of the day of rightful vengeance hail, I dare at length a ver that gods above have care of men, and heat of earthly wrongs. I, I who stand in thus exult to see this man lie wound in robes of fury's woe, slain in requital of his father's craft, take ye the truth, that atreas this man's sire, the lord and monarch of this land of old, held with my sire Thaesti's deep dispute, brother
with brother for the prize of sway, and drave him from his home to banishment. Thereafter the lorne exile homeward stole and clung a suppleant to the hearth divine, and for himself won this immunity, not with his own blood to defile the land that gave him birth, but atreas godless sire of him who hear lies dead, this welcome plan, with zeal that was not love he feigned to hold in loyal joy a day of festal cheer, and bade my father to his board, and set before him flesh that was his children once. First sitting at the upper board alone, he hid the fingers and the feet, but gave the rest, and readily Thaesti's took, what to his ignorance no semblance war of human flesh and ate, behold what cursed that eating brought upon our race and name, for when he knew what all unhalowed thing he thus had wrought, with horrors bitter cry back-starting spewing forth the fragments foul, on pellets house a deadly curse he spake, as darkly as I
spurned this damnid food, so perish all the race of place thines. Thus by that curse fell he whom he hear ye see, and I, who else, this murder woeve in plan, for me an infant yet in swaddling bands of the three children, youngest, atreas sent to banishment by my sad father's side, but justice brought me home once more, grown now to manhood's years, and stranger though I was, my right hand reached unto the chief to his life, plotting and planning all that malice bade, and death itself were honor now to me, beholding him in justice ambushed tain. Corus, I guessed thus for this insolence of thine that wants itself in evil take my scorn, of thine own will thou sayest thou hast slain the chief to him, by thine own unated plot devised the pitiest death, I read thee well, think not thy head shall escape when right prevails the people's ban the stones of death and doom.
I guessed thus, this word from thee, this word from one who rose low at the ores beneath, what time we rule we of the upper tier, thou know and on, to is better to be taught again in age by one so young submission at the word, but iron of the chain and hungers throws can minister unto an or swoon pride. Marvelous well, I, even in the old, hast eyes and seeest not this, peace, kick not thus against the pricks unto thy proper pain. Corus, thou womanish man, waiting till war did cease, home-watcher and defiler of the couch, an arch-deviser of the chieftains doom. I guessed thus, bold words again, but they shall end in tears the very converse thine of Orpheus tongue. He roused and led in ecstasy of joy all things that heard his voice melodious, but thou is with the futile cry of curves, will draw men wrathfully upon thee, peace, or strong
subjections soon shall tame thy tongue. Corus, I, thou art want to hold an archive down, thou skilled to plan the murder of the king, but not with thine own hand to smite the blow. I guessed thus, that fronthful forth was woman's very part, not mine, whom deep suspicion from of old would have debarred. Now by his treasures aid my purpose holds to rule the citizens, but whoso will not bear my guiding hand, him for his corn-fed metal I will drive not as a trace-horse, light comparison, but to the shafts with heaviest harness bound, famine, the grim mate of the dungeon dark shall look on him and shall behold him tame. Corus, thou lo-zul soul, was then thy strength to the slight to deal in murder, while a woman's hand staining and shaming argos in its gods availed to slay him? No, if anywhere the light of life smite on Oresti's eyes, let him, returning by some
guardian fate, hew down with force her paramour and her. I guessed thus, how thy word and act shall issue thou shalt shortly understand. Corus, up to action, oh my comrades, where the fight is hard at hand, swift, your right hands to the sword-hilt bear the weapon as for strife. I guessed thus, low, I too am standing ready, hand on hilt for death or life. Corus, to us thy word and we accept it, onward to the chance of war, Clydeum Nestra, nay, enough, enough my champion, we will smite and slay no more, already have we reaped enough the harvest field of guilt, enough of wrong in murder, let no other blood be spilt, peace-old men, and pass away into the homes by fate decreed, lest ill-vowler meet our vengeance, it was a necessary deed, but enough of toils and troubles be the end if ever now, air thy talon o avenger, deal another deadly blow, to the woman's word of warning, and let who
will list thereto? I guessed thus, but that these should loose and lavish reckless blossoms of the tongue, and in hazard of their fortune cast upon me words of wrong, and forget the law of subjects and revile their rulers' word, Corus, ruler, but is not for our guives thus to own a dastard lord, I guessed thus, I will follow to chastise thee in my coming days of sway, Corus, not a fortune-guide or resty safely on his homeward way, I guessed thus, ah, well I know how exiles' feet on hopes of their return, Corus, fair and baton on pollution of the right while tis thy turn, I guessed thus, thou shalt pay thee well assured heavy quittons for thy pride, Corus, pro and strut with her to watch thee like a cock is made beside, Clydeumnestra, he'd not thou too highly of them, let the curpact growl and yell, I and thou
will rule the palace and will order all things well. Ex-Aient End of Part 4 Recording by Ex-Patriot in Bangor, Maine End of Agamemnon by Iskilis, translated by Edmund Deutsch Anderson Moore said 1849 to
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