Once more I fain would speak; not to renew Weak wailings, but to call on yonder sun And bid him bring the avenger to requite The cruel murderess of a poor weak slave. Alas! for man, if in his prosperous hour, Fate faintly limns the shape of happiness, Soon comes the sponge and wipes the picture out; And sad is the beginning, worse the end. * * * * * _CASSANDRA'S PROPHECY FULFILLED_. The doorway of the palace opens and reveals Clytaemnestra within the portal standing over the corpse of Agamemnon. She has slain him with an axe in the bath, having entangled him in a sleeveless robe. LINES 1343-1554. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Much did I say before to serve the time Which now to contradict I think no shame. How else could hate encircle with its toils The enemy that was a seeming friend, So that the prey might not o'erleap the net? Old is the quarrel; over my revenge Long have I brooded, now it comes at last. Here where I stand the deed of death was done, And I so managed, I deny it not, That he could neither fly nor fend the blow. As he had been a fish I round him cast, Like a close net, a rich but deadly robe. Twice did I strike, twice did he groan, then sank; And as he lay another stroke I gave, To make the lucky number, and commend His soul to Hades, guardian of the dead. So did his angry spirit pass away, While over me he threw a jet of blood, Which gladdened me as doth the rain from heaven The corn-field in the swelling of the ear. Elders of Argos, hear! This have I done, And in this glory, take it as ye will. To pour a glad libation on the corpse, Did piety permit, were more than just. He mixed a bowl of curses for the house, And what he mixed himself came home to drink. CHORUS. Amazement fills us at thy hardihood That thus dost triumph o'er thy murdered lord. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Ye think to deal with a weak woman's heart, But I, with soul unquailing, to your face Tell you, approve or damn me as you may, Here Agamemnon lies, my lord that was, A corpse that is, the work of this right hand, Its righteous work. There is no more to say. CHORUS. Lady, what baleful herb Of earth or potion dire Drawn from the flowing ocean, hadst thou drunk, That on thee thou hast brought the public curse? Thou hast cast off, cut off; Thyself will be cast out, A thing of loathing to our citizens. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Yea, thy award to me is banishment, And execration, and the people's curse. But no such measure didst thou mete this man When recklessly, as it had been a beast, While in his pastures sheep were numberless, He sacrificed his child, the dearest child That I had borne, to charm the Thracian gales. Him from the land to drive for his foul deed Thy justice moved thee not. But now I come Before the bar, the judge is merciless. I warn thee that thy threats are launched at one Who, if thou canst in equal combat win, Will yield; but, should heaven otherwise ordain, Thou may'st too late be put to wisdom's school. CHORUS.