Erechtheus: A Tragedy (New Edition)Swinburne, Algernon Charles
General
Erechtheus: A Tragedy (New Edition)
Swinburne, Algernon Charles
English drama; Tragedies (Drama)
More hapless born by far [_Str._
Beneath some wintrier star,
One sits in stone among high Lydian snows,
The tomb of her own woes:
Yet happiest was once of the daughters of Gods, and divine by
her sire and her lord,
Ere her tongue was a shaft for the hearts of her sons, for the
heart of her husband a sword.
For she, too great of mind, [_Ant._
Grown through her good things blind.
With godless lips and fire of her own breath
Spake all her house to death; 1250
But thou, no mother unmothered, nor kindled in spirit with
pride of thy seed,
Thou hast hallowed thy child for a blameless blood-offering,
and ransomed thy race by thy deed.
MESSENGER.
As flower is graffed on flower, so grief on grief
Engraffed brings forth new blossoms of strange tears,
Fresh buds and green fruits of an alien pain;
For now flies rumour on a dark wide wing,
Murmuring of woes more than ye knew, most like
Hers whom ye hailed most wretched; for the twain
Last left of all this house that wore last night
A threefold crown of maidens, and to-day 1260
Should let but one fall dead out of the wreath,
If mad with grief we know not and sore love
For this their sister, or with shame soul-stung
To outlive her dead or doubt lest their lives too
The Gods require to seal their country safe
And bring the oracular doom to perfect end,
Have slain themselves, and fallen at the altar-foot
Lie by their own hands done to death; and fear
Shakes all the city as winds a wintering tree,
And as dead leaves are men's hearts blown about 1270
And shrunken with ill thoughts, and flowerless hopes
Parched up with presage, lest the piteous blood
Shed of these maidens guiltless fall and fix
On this land's forehead like a curse that cleaves
To the unclean soul's inexpiate hunted head
Whom his own crime tracks hotlier than a hound
To life's veiled end unsleeping; and this hour
Now blackens toward the battle that must close
All gates of hope and fear on all their hearts
Who tremble toward its issue, knowing not yet 1280
If blood may buy them surety, cleanse or soil
The helpless hands men raise and reach no stay.
CHORUS.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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