Chorus: Strophe 1
What is this that evermore, A cold terror at the door Of this bosom presage-haunted, Pale as death hovereth? While a song unhired, unwanted, By some inward prophet chanted, Speaks the secret at its core; And to cast it from my blood Like a dream not understood No sweet-spoken Courage now Sitteth at my heart’s dear prow.
Yet I know that manifold Days, like sand, have waxen old Since the day those shoreward-thrown Cables flapped and line on line Standing forth for Ilion The long galleys took the brine
Antistrophe 1
And in harbour—mine own eye Hath beheld—again they lie; Yet that lyreless music hidden Whispers still words of ill, ’Tis the Soul of me unbidden, Like some Fury sorrow-ridden, Weeping over things that die. Neither waketh in my sense Ever Hope’s dear confidence; For this flesh that groans within, And these bones that know of Sin, This tossed heart upon the spate Of a whirpool that is Fate, Surely these lie not. Yet deep Beneath hope my prayer doth run,
All will die like dreams, and creep To the unthought of and undone.
Strophe 2
—Surely of great Weal at the end of all Comes not Content; so near doth Fever crawl, Close neighbour, pressing hard the narrow wall.
—Woe to him who fears not fate! ’Tis the ship that forward straight Sweepeth, strikes the reef below; He who fears and lightens weight, Casting forth, in measured throw, From the wealth his hand hath got … His whole ship shall founder not, With abundance overfraught, Nor deep seas above him flow. —Lo, when famine stalketh near, One good gift of Zeus again From the furrows of one year Endeth quick the starving pain;
Antistrophe 2
—But once the blood of death is fallen, black And oozing at a slain man’s feet, alack! By spell or singing who shall charm it back?
—One there was of old who showed Man the path from death to day; But Zeus, lifting up his rod, Spared not, when he charged him stay.
—Save that every doom of God Hath by other dooms its way Crossed, that none may rule alone, In one speech-outstripping groan Forth had all this passion flown, Which now murmuring hides away, Full of pain, and hoping not Ever one clear thread to unknot From the tangle of my soul, From a heart of burning coal. Suddenly Clytemnestra appears standing in the Doorway.
Clytemnestra: Thou likewise, come within! I speak thy name, Cassandra; Cassandra trembles, but continues to stare in front of her, as though not hearing Clytemnestra. seeing the Gods—why chafe at them?— Have placed thee here, to share within these walls Our lustral waters, ’mid a crowd of thralls Who stand obedient round the altar-stone Of our Possession. Therefore come thou down, And be not over-proud. The tale is told How once Alcmêna’s son himself, being sold, Was patient, though he liked not the slaves’ mess.
And more, if Fate must bring thee to this stress, Praise God thou art come to a House of high report And wealth from long ago. The baser sort, Who have reaped some sudden harvest unforeseen, Are ever cruel to their slaves, and mean In the measure. We shall give whate’er is due. Cassandra is silent.
Leader: To thee she speaks, and waits … clear words and true! Oh, doom is all around thee like a net; Yield, if thou canst. … Belike thou canst not yet.
Clytemnestra: Methinks, unless this wandering maid is one Voiced like a swallow-bird, with tongue unknown And barbarous, she can read my plain intent. I use but words, and ask for her consent.
Leader: Ah, come! ’Tis best, as the world lies to-day. Leave this high-throned chariot, and obey!
Clytemnestra: How long must I stand dallying at the Gate? Even now the beasts to Hestia consecrate Wait by the midmost fire, since there is wrought This high fulfilment for which no man thought. Wherefore, if ’tis thy pleasure to obey Aught of my will, prithee, no more delay! If, dead to sense, thou wilt not understand … Thou show her, not with speech but with brute hand! To the Leader of the Chorus.
Leader: The strange maid needs a rare interpreter. She is trembling like a wild beast in a snare.
Clytemnestra: ’Fore God, she is mad, and heareth but her own Folly! A slave, her city all o’erthrown, She needs must chafe her bridle, till this fret Be foamed away in blood and bitter sweat.
I waste no more speech, thus to be defied. She goes back inside the Palace.
Leader: I pity thee so sore, no wrath nor pride Is in me.—Come, dismount! Bend to the stroke Fate lays on thee, and learn to feel thy yoke. He lays his hand softly on Cassandra’s shoulder.
Cassandra: Moaning to herself.
Otototoi … Dreams. Dreams. Apollo. O Apollo!