CLYTEMNESTRA. Now, even now, the Achaian holdeth Troy! Methinks there is a crying in her streets That makes no concord. When sweet unguent meets With vinegar in one phial, I warrant none Shall lay those wranglers lovingly at one. So conquerors and conquered shalt thou hear, Two sundered tones, two lives of joy or fear. Here women in the dust about their slain, Husbands or brethren, and by dead old men Pale children who shall never more be free, For all they loved on earth cry desolately. And hard beside them war-stained Greeks, whom stark Battle and then long searching through the dark Hath gathered, ravenous, in the dawn, to feast At last on all the plenty Troy possessed, No portion in that feast nor ordinance, But each man clutching at the prize of chance. Aye, there at last under good roofs they lie Of men spear-quelled, no frosts beneath the sky, No watches more, no bitter moony dew…. How blessèd they will sleep the whole night through! Oh, if these days they keep them free from sin Toward Ilion’s conquered shrines and Them within Who watch unconquered, maybe not again The smiter shall be smit, the taker ta’en. May God but grant there fall not on that host The greed of gold that maddeneth and the lust To spoil inviolate things! But half the race Is run which windeth back to home and peace. Yea, though of God they pass unchallengèd, Methinks the wound of all those desolate dead Might waken, groping for its will…. Ye hear A woman’s word, belike a woman’s fear. May good but conquer in the last incline Of the balance! Of all prayers that prayer is mine. LEADER. O Woman, like a man faithful and wise Thou speakest. I accept thy testimonies And turn to God with praising, for a gain Is won this day that pays for all our pain. [CLYTEMNESTRA _returns to the Palace. The_ CHORUS _take up their position for the Second Stasimon._] AN ELDER. O Zeus, All-ruler, and Night the Aid, Gainer of glories, and hast thou thrown Over the towers of Ilion Thy net close-laid, That none so nimble and none so tall Shall escape withal The snare of the slaver that claspeth all? ANOTHER. And Zeus the Watcher of Friend and Friend I also praise, who hath wrought this end. Long since on Paris his shaft he drew, And hath aimèd true, Not too soon falling nor yet too far, The fire of the avenging star. CHORUS. (_This is God’s judgement upon Troy. May it not be too fierce! Gold cannot save one who spurneth Justice_.) The stroke of Zeus hath found them! Clear this day The tale, and plain to trace. He judged, and Troy hath fallen.—And have men said That God not deigns to mark man’s hardihead, Trampling to earth the grace Of holy and delicate things?—Sin lies that way. For visibly Pride doth breed its own return On prideful men, who, when their houses swell With happy wealth, breathe ever wrath and blood. Yet not too fierce let the due vengeance burn; Only as deemeth well One wise of mood.