Carry my dear-loved master's hand in mine! The rest I whisper not, for on my tongue Is laid a seal.[n5] These walls, if they could speak, {44} Would say strange things. Myself to those that know Am free of speech, to whoso knows not dumb. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ CHORUS _in procession. March time_. CHORUS. Nine years have rolled, the tenth is rolling, Since the strong Atridan pair, Menelaus and Agamemnon, Sceptred kings by Jove's high grace,[n6] With a host of sworn alliance, With a thousand triremes rare, With a righteous strong defiance, Sailed for Troy. From furious breast Loud they clanged the peal of battle; Like the cry of vultures wild O'er the lone paths fitful-wheeling,[n7] With their plumy oarage oaring Over the nest by the spoiler spoiled, The nest dispeopled now and bare, Their long but fruitless care. But the gods see it: some Apollo, Pan or Jove, the wrong hath noted, Heard the sharp and piercing cry Of the startled birds, shrill-throated Tenants of the sky; And the late-chastising Fury[n8] Sent from above to track the spoiler, Hovers vengeful nigh. Thus great Jove, the high protector Of the hospitable laws,[n9] 'Gainst Alexander sends the Atridans, Harnessed in a woman's cause, The many-lorded fair. Toils on toils shall come uncounted, (Jove hath willed it so); Limb-outwearying hard endeavour, Where the strong knees press the dust, Where the spear-shafts split and shiver, Trojan and Greek shall know. But things are as they are: the chain Of Fate doth brad them; sighs are vain, Tears, libations, fruitless flow, To divert from purposed ire The powers whose altars know no fire.[n10] {45} But we behind that martial train Inglorious left remain, Old and frail, and feebly leaning Strength as of childhood on a staff. Yea! even as life's first unripe marrow In the tender bones are we, From war's harsh service free. For hoary Eld, life's leaf up-shrunken, Totters, his three-footed way Feebly feeling, weak as childhood, Like a dream that walks by day. But what is this? what wandering word, Clytemnestra queen, hath reached thee? What hast seen? or what hast heard That from street to street swift flies Thy word, commanding sacrifice? All the altars of all the gods That keep the city, gods supernal, Gods Olympian, gods infernal, Gods of the Forum, blaze with gifts; Right and left the flame mounts high, Spiring to the sky, With the gentle soothings cherished Of the oil that knows no malice,[n11] And the sacred cake that smokes From the queen's chamber in the palace. What thou canst and may'st, declare; Be the healer of the care That bodes black harm within me; change it To the bright and hopeful ray, Which from the altar riseth, chasing From the heart the sateless sorrow That eats vexed life away.