_Clytæm._ I have no leisure here to stay without: For as regards our central altar, there The sheep stand by as victims for the fire; For never had we hoped such thanks to give: If thou wilt do this, make no more delay; But if thou understandest not my words, Then wave thy foreign hand in lieu of speech. [CASSANDRA _shudders as in horror, but makes no sign_ _Chor._ The stranger seems a clear interpreter To need. Her look is like a captured deer's. 1030 _Clytæm._ Nay, she is mad, and follows evil thoughts, Since, leaving now her city, newly-captured, She comes, and knows not how to take the curb, Ere she foam out her passion in her blood. I will not bear the shame of uttering more. [_Exit_ _Chor._ And I—I pity her, and will not rage: Come, thou poor sufferer, empty leave thy car; Yield to thy doom, and handsel now the yoke. [CASSANDRA _leaves the chariot, and bursts into a cry of wailing_ STROPHE I _Cass._ Woe! woe, and well-a-day! Apollo! O Apollo! 1040 _Chor._ Why criest thou so loud on Loxias? The wailing cry of mourner suits not him. ANTISTROPHE I _Cass._ Woe! woe, and well-a-day! Apollo! O Apollo! _Chor._ Again with boding words she calls the God, Though all unmeet as helper to men's groans. STROPHE II _Cass._ Apollo! O Apollo! God of all paths, Apollo true to me; For still thou dost appal me and destroy.[353] _Chor._ She seems her own ills like to prophesy: 1050 The God's great gift is in the slave's mind yet. ANTISTROPHE II _Cass._ Apollo! O Apollo! God of all paths, Apollo true to me; What path hast led me? To what roof hast brought? _Chor._ To that of the Atreidæ. This I tell, If thou know'st not. Thou wilt not find it false. STROPHE III _Cass._ Ah! Ah! Ah me! Say rather to a house God hates—that knows Murder, self-slaughter, ropes,[354] *A human shamble, staining earth with blood. 1060 _Chor._ Keen scented seems this stranger, like a hound, And sniffs to see whose murder she may find. ANTISTROPHE III _Cass._ Ah! Ah! Ah me! Lo! [_looking wildly, and pointing to the house_,] there the witnesses whose word I trust,— Those babes who wail their death, The roasted flesh that made a father's meal. _Chor._ We of a truth had heard thy seeress fame, But prophets now are not the race we seek.[355] STROPHE IV