The Poems of Oscar Wilde/A Fragment from the Agamemnon of Æschylos
A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLOS
(Lines 1140-1173)
[The scene is the court-yard of the Palace at Argos. Agamemnon has already entered the House of Doom, and Clytemnestra has followed close on his heels. Cassandra is left alone upon the stage. The conscious terror of death and the burden of prophecy lie heavy upon her; terrible signs and visions greet her approach. She sees blood upon the lintel, and the smell of blood scares her, as some bird, from the door. The ghosts of the murdered children come to mourn with her. Her second sight pierces the Palace walls; she sees the fatal bath, the trammelling net, and the axe sharpened for her own ruin and her lord's.
But not even in the hour of her last anguish is Apollo merciful; her warnings are unheeded, her prophetic utterances made mock of.
The orchestra is filled with a chorus of old men weak, foolish, irresolute. They do not believe the weird woman of mystery till the hour for help is past, and the cry of Agamemnon echoes from the house, 'Oh me! I am stricken with a stroke of death.']
CHORUS
Thy prophecies are but a lying tale,
For cruel gods have brought thee to this state,
And of thyself and thine own wretched fate
Sing you this song and these unhallowed lays,
Like the brown bird of grief insatiate
Crying for sorrow of its dreary days;
Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale—
The nightingale! The nightingale!
CASSANDRA
Yet I would that to me they had given
The fate of that singer so clear,
Fleet wings to fly up unto heaven,
Away from all mourning and fear;
For ruin and slaughter await me—the cleaving with sword and the spear.
CHORUS
Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain,
Sent by some god it may be, yet for naught?
Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain,
Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain
With shrill, sad cries, as if by death distraught?
Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy,
Where, upon either hand,
Landmarks for ever stand
With horrid legend for all men to see?
CASSANDRA
O bitter bridegroom who didst bear
Ruin to those that loved thee true!
O holy stream Scamander, where
With gentle nurturement I grew
In the first days, when life and love were new.
And now—and now—it seems that I must lie
In the dark land that never sees the sun;
Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy
By the black stream Cokytos that doth run
Through long, low hills of dreary Acheron.
CHORUS
Ah, but thy word is clear!
Even a child among men,
Even a child might see
What is lying hidden here.
Ah! I am smitten deep
To the heart with a deadly blow
At the evil fate of the maid,
At the cry of her song of woe!
Sorrows for her to bear!
Wonders for me to hear!
CASSANDRA
O my poor land laid waste with flame and fire!
O ruined city overthrown by fate!
Ah, what availed the offerings of my Sire
To keep the foreign foemen from the gate!
Ah, what availed the herds of pasturing kine
To save my country from the wrath divine!
Ah, neither prayer nor priest availèd aught,
Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought,
For the tall town lies desolate and low.
And I, the singer of this song of woe,
Know, by the fire burning in my brain,
That Death, the healer of all earthly pain,
Is close at hand! I will not shirk the blow.