C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Vision of Cassandra
By Æschylus (c. 525–456 B.C.)
PThe lips at last unlocking.
’Tis but disparagement to call upon
In misery.
Oh, the burning arrow through the brain!
Phœbus Apollo! Apollo!
Possessed indeed—whether by—
Through trampled ashes, blood, and fiery rain,
Over water seething, and behind the breathing
War-horse in the darkness—till you rose again,
Took the helm—took the rein—
A night of Horror!
Leading me, lighting me—
Foh! the smell of carnage through the door
Scares me from it—drags me toward it—
Phœbus Apollo! Apollo!
That hunt the trail of blood. But here at fault—
This is no den of slaughter, but the house
Of Agamemnon.
Phantoms of two mangled children hover—and a famished man,
At an empty table glaring, seizes and devours!
For any maiden from abroad to know,
Or, knowing—
The terrible Woman, listening, watching,
Under a mask, preparing the blow
In the fold of her robe—
For in the tragic story of this House—
Unless, indeed the fatal Helen—
No woman—
Of Tartarus—love-grinning Woman above,
Dragon-tailed under—honey-tongued, Harpy-clawed,
Into the glittering meshes of slaughter
She wheedles, entices him into the poisonous
Fold of the serpent—
Whose stony lips once open vomit out
Such uncouth horrors.
Slaughters the Lion asleep; and lifting
Her blood-dripping fangs buried deep in his mane,
Glaring about her insatiable, bellowing,
Bounds hither—Phœbus Apollo, Apollo, Apollo!
Whither have you led me, under night alive with fire,
Through the trampled ashes of the city of my sire,
From my slaughtered kinsmen, fallen throne, insulted shrine,
Slave-like to be butchered, the daughter of a royal line!