CHORUS. Again with evil-omened voice she cries Upon the god least fit to wait on woe. STROPHE II. CASSANDRA. Apollo! Apollo! My way-god, my leader Apollo![n71] Apollo the destroyer! Thou with light labour hast destroyed me quite. {73} CHORUS. Strange oracles against herself she speaks; Ev'n in the bondsman's bosom dwells the god. ANTISTROPHE II. CASSANDRA. Apollo! Apollo! Apollo, my leader, whither hast thou led me?[n72] My way-god, Apollo? What homes receive thy captive prophetess? CHORUS. The Atridæ's homes. This, an' thou knowst it not, I tell thee; and the words I speak are true. STROPHE III. CASSANDRA. Ha! the house of the Atridæ![f23] Well the godless house I know, With the dagger and the rope, And the self-inflicted blow! Where red blood is on the floor, And black murder at the door-- This house--this house I know. CHORUS. She scents out slaughter, mark me, like a hound, And tracks the spot where she shall feast on blood. ANTISTROPHE III. CASSANDRA. Ay! I scent a truthful scent, And the thing I say I know. See! see! these weeping children, How they vouch the monstrous woe! Their red wounds are bleeding fresh, And their father eats their flesh, This bloody house I know. CHORUS. The fame of thy divinings far renowned Have reached us, but we wish no prophets here. STROPHE IV. CASSANDRA. Ha! ha! what plots she now! A new sorrow, a new snare To the house of the Atridæ, And a burden none may bear! A black harm to all and each, A disease that none may leech, And the evil plot to mar All help and hope is far. {74} CHORUS. Nay now I'm lost and mazed in vain surmise. What first she said I knew--the common rumour. ANTISTROPHE IV. CASSANDRA. Ha! woman wilt thou dare? Thy bed's partner and thy mate In the warm refreshing bath Shall he find his bloody fate? How shall I dare to say What comes and will not stay? See, to do her heart's command Where she stretches her red hand! CHORUS. Not yet I understand: through riddles dark And cloudy oracles my wits are wandering. STROPHE V. CASSANDRA. Ha! what bloody sight is this! 'Tis a net of Hades spread-- 'Tis a snare to snare her lord, The fond sharer of her bed. The black chorus of the place[f24] Shout for vengeance o'er the race, Whose offence cries for atoning, With a heavy death of stoning! STROPHE VI. CHORUS. What black Fury of the place Shall shout vengeance o'er the race? Such strange words I hate to hear. The blithe blood, that crimson ran[n73] In my veins, runs pale and wan With the taint of yellow fear, As when in the mortal anguish,[n74] Life's last fitful glimpses languish And Fate, as now, is near!