Many a hero's grave
Will oft our thoughts recall to Ilion's shore.
Will oft our thoughts recall to Ilion's shore.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
IPHIGENIA: Whence art thou? Stranger, speak! To me thy bearing
Stamps thee of Grecian, not of Scythian race.
[_She unbinds his chains_.
The gods avert the doom that threatens you!
PYLADES: Delicious music! Dearly welcome tones
Of our own language in a foreign land!
We are from Crete, Adrastus' sons; and I
Am Cephalus; my eldest brother, he,
Laodamas. Between us stood a youth
Whom, when our sire died (having return'd
From Troy, enrich'd with loot), in contest fierce
My brother slew! 'Tis thus the Furies now
For kindred-murder dog his restless steps.
But to this savage shore the Delphian god
Hath sent us, cheer'd by hope. My tale is told.
IPHIGENIA: Troy fallen! Dear stranger, oh, say!
PYLADES: The stately town
Now lies in ruins.
Many a hero's grave
Will oft our thoughts recall to Ilion's shore.
There lies Achilles and his noble friend;
Nor Palamedes, nor Ajax, e'er again
The daylight of their native land beheld.
Yet happy are the thousands who receiv'd
Their bitter death-blow from a hostile hand,
And not like Agamemnon, who, ensnared,
Fell murdered on the day of his return
By Clytemnestra, with AEgisthus' aid.
IPHIGENIA: Base passion prompted then this deed of
shame?
PYLADES: And feelings, cherish'd long of deep revenge.
For such a dreadful deed, that if on earth
Aught could exculpate murder, it were this.
The monarch, for the welfare of the Greeks,
Her eldest daughter doomed. Within her heart
This planted such abhorrence that forthwith
She to AEgisthus hath resigned herself,
And round her husband flung the web of death.
IPHIGENIA (_veiling herself_): It is enough! Thou wilt again
behold me.
ACT III
IPHIGENIA _and_ ORESTES.
IPHIGENIA: Unhappy man, I only loose thy bonds
In token of a still severer doom.
For the incensed king, should I refuse
Compliance with the rites himself enjoin'd,
Will choose another virgin from my train
As my successor. Then, alas! with nought,
pave ardent wishes, can I succour you.
But tell me now, when Agamemnon fell,
Orestes--did he share his sire's fate?