CLYTEMNESTRA. This day Troy fell. Methinks I see't; a host Of jarring voices stirs the startled city, Like oil and acid, sounds that will not mingle, {52} By natural hatred sundered. Thou may'st hear Shouts of the victor, with the dying groan, Battling, and captives' cry; upon the dead-- Fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, wives-- The living fall--the young upon the old; And from enthralléd necks wail out their woe. Fresh from the fight, through the dark night the spoilers Tumultuous rush where hunger spurs them on, To feast on banquets never spread for them. The homes of captive Trojan chiefs they share As chance decides the lodgment; there secure From the cold night-dews and the biting frosts, Beneath the lordly roof, to their hearts' content[n36] They live, and through the watchless night prolong Sound slumbers. Happy if the native gods They reverence, and the captured altars spare,[n37] Themselves not captive led by their own folly! May no unbridled lust of unjust gain Master their hearts, no reckless rash desire! Much toil yet waits them. Having turned the goal,[n38] The course's other half they must mete out, Ere home receive them safe. Their ships must brook The chances of the sea; and, these being scaped, If they have sinned[n39] the gods their own will claim, And vengeance wakes till blood shall be atoned. I am a woman; but mark thou well my words; I hint the harm; but with no wavering scale, Prevail the good! I thank the gods who gave me Rich store of blessings, richly to enjoy. CHORUS. Woman, thou speakest wisely as a man, And kindly as thyself. But having heard The certain signs of Agamemnon's coming, Prepare we now to hymn the gods; for surely With their strong help we have not toiled in vain. O regal Jove! O blessed Night! Thou hast won thee rich adornments, Thou hast spread thy shrouding meshes O'er the towers of Priam. Ruin Whelms the young, the old. In vain Shall they strive to o'erleap the snare, And snap the bondsman's galling chain, In woe retrieveless lost. {53} Jove, I fear thee, just protector Of the wrong'd host's sacred rights; Thou didst keep thy bow sure bent 'Gainst Alexander; not before The fate-predestined hour, and not Beyond the stars, with idle aim, Thy cunning shaft was shot.