CLYTEMNESTRA I deem not that the death he died Had overmuch of shame: For this was he who did provide Foul wrong unto his house and name: His daughter, blossom of my womb, He gave unto a deadly doom, Iphigenia, child of tears! And as he wrought, even so he fares. Nor be his vaunt too loud in hell; For by the sword his sin he wrought, And by the sword himself is brought Among the dead to dwell. CHORUS Ah whither shall I fly? For all in ruin sinks the kingly hall; Nor swift device nor shift of thought have I, To ’scape its fall. A little while the gentler rain-drops fail; I stand distraught—a ghastly interval, Till on the roof-tree rings the bursting hail Of blood and doom. Even now fate whets the steel On whetstones new and deadlier than of old, The steel that smites, in Justice’ hold, Another death to deal. O Earth! that I had lain at rest And lapped for ever in thy breast, Ere I had seen my chieftain fall Within the laver’s silver wall, Low-lying on dishonoured bier! And who shall give him sepulchre, And who the wail of sorrow pour? Woman, ’tis thine no more! A graceless gift unto his shade Such tribute, by his murd’ress paid! Strive not thus wrongly to atone The impious deed thy hand hath done. Ah who above the god-like chief Shall weep the tears of loyal grief? Who speak above his lowly grave The last sad praises of the brave? CLYTEMNESTRA Peace! for such task is none of thine. By me he fell, by me he died, And now his burial rites be mine! Yet from these halls no mourners’ train Shall celebrate his obsequies; Only by Acheron’s rolling tide His child shall spring unto his side, And in a daughter’s loving wise Shall clasp and kiss him once again! CHORUS Lo! sin by sin and sorrow dogg’d by sorrow— And who the end can know? The slayer of to-day shall die to-morrow— The wage of wrong is woe. While Time shall be, while Zeus in heaven is lord, His law is fixed and stern; On him that wrought shall vengeance be outpoured— The tides of doom return. The children of the curse abide within These halls of high estate— And none can wrench from off the home of sin The clinging grasp of fate. CLYTEMNESTRA Now walks thy word aright, to tell This ancient truth of oracle; But I with vows of sooth will pray To him, the power that holdeth sway O’er all the race of Pleisthenes— _Tho’ dark the deed and deep the guilt, With this last blood, my hands have spilt, I pray thee let thine anger cease! I pray thee pass from us away To some new race in other lands, There, if thou wilt, to wrong and slay The lives of men by kindred hands._