CLYTEMNESTRA O ye just men, who speak my sentence now, The city’s hate, the ban of all my realm! Ye had no voice of old to launch such doom On him, my husband, when he held as light My daughter’s life as that of sheep or goat, One victim from the thronging fleecy fold! Yea, slew in sacrifice his child and mine, The well-loved issue of my travail-pangs, To lull and lay the gales that blew from Thrace. That deed of his, I say, that stain and shame, Had rightly been atoned by banishment; But ye, who then were dumb, are stern to judge This deed of mine that doth affront your ears. Storm out your threats, yet knowing this for sooth, That I am ready, if your hand prevail As mine now doth, to bow beneath your sway: If God say nay, it shall be yours to learn By chastisement a late humility. CHORUS Bold is thy craft, and proud Thy confidence, thy vaunting loud; Thy soul, that chose a murd’ress’ fate, Is all with blood elate— Maddened to know The blood not yet avenged, the damnèd spot Crimson upon thy brow. But Fate prepares for thee thy lot— Smitten as thou didst smite, without a friend, To meet thine end! CLYTEMNESTRA Hear then the sanction of the oath I swear— By the great vengeance for my murdered child, By Atè, by the Fury unto whom This man lies sacrificed by hand of mine, I do not look to tread the hall of Fear, While in this hearth and home of mine there burns The light of love—Aegisthus—as of old Loyal, a stalwart shield of confidence— As true to me as this slain man was false, Wronging his wife with paramours at Troy, Fresh from the kiss of each Chryseis there! Behold him dead—behold his captive prize, Seeress and harlot—comfort of his bed, True prophetess, true paramour—I wot The sea-bench was not closer to the flesh, Full oft, of every rower, than was she. See, ill they did, and ill requites them now. His death ye know: she as a dying swan Sang her last dirge, and lies, as erst she lay, Close to his side, and to my couch has left A sweet new taste of joys that know no fear. CHORUS Ah woe and well-a-day! I would that Fate— Not bearing agony too great, Nor stretching me too long on couch of pain— Would bid mine eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep! For life is weary, now my lord is slain, The gracious among kings! Hard fate of old he bore and many grievous things, And for a woman’s sake, on Ilian land— Now is his life hewn down, and by a woman’s hand. O Helen, O infatuate soul, Who bad’st the tides of battle roll, O’erwhelming thousands, life on life, ’Neath Ilion’s wall! And now lies dead the lord of all. The blossom of thy storied sin Bears blood’s inexpiable stain, O thou that erst, these halls within, Wert unto all a rock of strife, A husband’s bane!