His father slew Troy's
thousands
in their pride;
He hath but one to kill.
He hath but one to kill.
Euripides - Electra
The grim
Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand
Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand,
A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold.
And there upon the floor, the blood, the old
Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot
In the stone! And on our father's chariot
The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red
False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led
The armies of the world! . . . Aye, tell him how
The grave of Agamemnon, even now,
Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.
And when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live:
"Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot? "
So is he scorned because he cometh not. . . .
O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell
Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain,
This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died!
His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride;
He hath but one to kill. . . . O God, but one!
Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son?
LEADER.
But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended, hasting home again?
_Enter the_ PEASANT.
PEASANT.
Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before
My house! What would they at this lonely door?
Seek they for me? --Strange gallants should not stay
A woman's goings.
ELECTRA.
Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand
Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand,
A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold.
And there upon the floor, the blood, the old
Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot
In the stone! And on our father's chariot
The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red
False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led
The armies of the world! . . . Aye, tell him how
The grave of Agamemnon, even now,
Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.
And when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live:
"Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot? "
So is he scorned because he cometh not. . . .
O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell
Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain,
This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died!
His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride;
He hath but one to kill. . . . O God, but one!
Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son?
LEADER.
But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended, hasting home again?
_Enter the_ PEASANT.
PEASANT.
Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before
My house! What would they at this lonely door?
Seek they for me? --Strange gallants should not stay
A woman's goings.
ELECTRA.
