CASSANDRA List! for no more the presage of my soul, Bride-like, shall peer from its secluding veil; But as the morning wind blows clear the east, More bright shall blow the wind of prophecy, And as against the low bright line of dawn Heaves high and higher yet the rolling wave, So in the clearing skies of prescience Dawns on my soul a further, deadlier woe, And I will speak, but in dark speech no more. Bear witness, ye, and follow at my side— I scent the trail of blood, shed long ago. Within this house a choir abidingly Chants in harsh unison the chant of ill; Yea, and they drink, for more enhardened joy, Man’s blood for wine, and revel in the halls, Departing never, Furies of the home. They sit within, they chant the primal curse, Each spitting hatred on that crime of old, The brother’s couch, the love incestuous That brought forth hatred to the ravisher. Say, is my speech or wild and erring now, Or doth its arrow cleave the mark indeed? They called me once, _The prophetess of lies, The wandering hag, the pest of every door—_ Attest ye now, _She knows in very sooth The house’s curse, the storied infamy._ CHORUS Yet how should oath—how loyally soe’er I swear it—aught avail thee? In good sooth, My wonder meets thy claim: I stand amazed That thou, a maiden born beyond the seas, Dost as a native know and tell aright Tales of a city of an alien tongue. CASSANDRA That is my power—a boon Apollo gave. CHORUS God though he were, yearning for mortal maid? CASSANDRA Ay! what seemed shame of old is shame no more. CHORUS Such finer sense suits not with slavery. CASSANDRA He strove to win me, panting for my love. CHORUS Came ye by compact unto bridal joys? CASSANDRA Nay—for I plighted troth, then foiled the god. CHORUS Wert thou already dowered with prescience? CASSANDRA Yea—prophetess to Troy of all her doom. CHORUS How left thee then Apollo’s wrath unscathed? CASSANDRA I, false to him, seemed prophet false to all. CHORUS Not so—to us at least thy words seem sooth. CASSANDRA Woe for me, woe! Again the agony— Dread pain that sees the future all too well With ghastly preludes whirls and racks my soul. Behold ye—yonder on the palace roof The spectre-children sitting—look, such things As dreams are made on, phantoms as of babes, Horrible shadows, that a kinsman’s hand Hath marked with murder, and their arms are full— A rueful burden—see, they hold them up, The entrails upon which their father fed!