On towers of Ilion, free no more, Hast flung the mighty mesh of war, And closely girt them round, Till neither warrior may 'scape, Nor stripling lightly overleap The trammels as they close, and close, Till with the grip of doom our foes In slavery's coil are bound!
Zeus, Lord of hospitality, In grateful awe I bend to thee-'Tis thou hast struck the blow!
At Alexander, long ago, We marked thee bend thy vengeful bow, But long and warily withhold The eager shaft, which, uncontrolled And loosed too soon or launched too high, Had wandered bloodless through the sky.
strophe 1
Zeus, the high God!-whate'er 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 smiteth sore. One said of old, The gods list not to hold A reckoning with him whose feet oppress The grace of holiness-An impious word! for whenso'er the sire Breathed forth rebellious fire-What time his household 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 weal that brings no woe be sent, And therewithal, content!
Who spurns the shrine of Right, nor wealth nor power Shall be to him a tower, To guard him from the gulf: there lies his lot, Where all things are forgot.
antistrophe 1
Lust drives him on-lust, desperate and wild, Fate's sin-contriving child-And cure is none; beyond concealment clear, Kindles sin's baleful glare.
As an ill coin beneath the wearing touch Betrays by stain and smutch Its metal false-such is the sinful wight.
Before, on pinions light, Fair Pleasure flits, and lures him childlike 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.
And such did Paris come Unto Atreides' home, And thence, with sin and shame his welcome to repay, Ravished the wife away-strophe 2
And she, unto her country and her kin Leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships, And bearing unto Troy destruction for a dower, And overbold in sin, Went fleetly thro' the gates, at midnight hour.
Oft from the prophets' lips Moaned out the warning and the wail-Ah woe!
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, awhile ago And woe! for him who stands Shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands That find her not, and sees, yet will not see, That she is far away!
And his sad fancy, yearning o'er the sea, Shall summon and recall Her wraith, 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 is turned their grace, Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes!
antistrophe 2
And when the night is deep, Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing pain Of hopings vain-Void, void and vain, for scarce the sleeping sight Has seen its old delight, When thro' the grasps of love that bid it stay It vanishes away On silent wings that roam adown the ways of sleep.
Such are the sights, the sorrows fell, About our hearth-and worse, whereof I may not tell.
But, all the wide town o'er, Each home that sent its master far away From Hellas' shore, Feels the keen thrill of heart, the pang of loss, to-day.
For, truth to say, The touch of bitter death is manifold!
Familiar was each face, and dear as life, That went unto the war, But thither, whence a warrior went of old, Doth nought return-Only a spear and sword, and ashes in an urn!
strophe 3
For Ares, lord of strife, Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, 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 band, 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!
Alas! one cries, and yet alas again!
Our chief is gone, the hero of the spear, And hath not left his peer!
Ah woe! another moans-my spouse is slain, The death of honour, 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 th' Atreides' name.
And others, far beneath the Ilian wall, Sleep their last sleep-the goodly chiefs and tall, Couched in the foeman's land, whereon they gave Their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his Trojan grave.
antistrophe 3
Therefore for each and all the city's breast Is heavy with a wrath supprest, As deeply 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 is 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!
O'er him who vaunteth an exceeding fame, Impends a woe condign;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 glave's estate beneath another's heel!
epodeBehold, throughout the city wide Have the swift feet of Rumour hied, Roused by the joyful flame:
But is the news they scatter, sooth?
Or haply do they give for truth Some cheat which heaven doth frame?
A child were he and all unwise, Who let his heart with joy be stirred.
To see the beacon-fires arise, And then, beneath some thwarting word, Sicken anon with hope deferred.
The edge of woman's insight still Good news from true divideth ill;Light rumours leap within the bound Then fences female credence round, But, lightly born, as lightly dies The tale that springs of her surmise.
(Several days are assumed to have elapsed.)LEADER OF THE CHORUS
