Parerga/Scene from the Eumenides
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SCENE FROM THE EUMENIDES.[1]
(235—275.)
ORESTES. CHORUS OF THE THREE FURIES.
ORESTES APPEARS BEFORE THE SHRINE OF PALLAS AT ATHENS.
ΟΡ. Ἄνασσ' Ἀθάνα, Λοξίου κελεύσμασινἭκω, κ.τ.λ.
ORESTES.I seek thy shrine, Athenè, not unbiddenBy Power Divine. Apollo led my steps.But do thou, Mighty Goddess, look on meWith mercy; nor reject a suppliant,Accused indeed of murder, but to whomNow no pollution clings. My hands are clean,And offence is dulled and worn awayBy the long course of wanderings and woesWhich I, by Phœbus ordered, have endured.To whose behests obedient, I approachThine image, Goddess; and must here remainUntil my cause be finally adjudged.
Enter Chorus.] CHORUS.Hold! here are traces of the man we seek.—Keep the directions of our silent guide.For, as keen hounds pursue a wounded fawn,We track our victim by the dripping blood.Long have our labours been: each spot of earthWe have explored; and hither o'er the seaUrged on the close chase in our wingless flight.And he we seek, lurks somewhere hereabouts;For the rank smell of human blood laughs up,And tells me of the hidden murderer.Search, search, on every side Sisters, search with me;Let not the MatricideHence unpunished flee!
Lo, where he stands!—See, sanctuary he gains, And, clinging to the sacred shrine, Demands acquittal of his crime.—That may not be. Still on the earth the stains Of the Mother's blood he shed, Not to be recalled, are spread,Still oozing into the polluted plains.
Now suffering thou in recompence must give.From thy warm limbs, e'en while thou yet dost live I'll suck the ruddy current of each vein, Thy heart's blood's fountain will I drain.Thus having wasted thee living away, I'll drag thee downward to the realms below,That for thy Mother's murder thou may'st payUnsleeping pangs. There shalt thou join, and knowOthers that Guilt's dread sentence undergo,—The Treacherous Host and Guest, the Thankless Child,The Bold Blaspheming Wretch that hath the Gods reviled.
For great is He, the Ruler of the Dead,Before whose eye each mortal's acts are spread;Who, in the tablets of his mindWith an all-recording penWriting the crimes of human-kind,Exacts a stern account from erring men.
ORESTES.Taught by long-suffering I am skill'd in artsTo purify the sinful; and I knowBoth when to speak and when is silence best.And now a wise Instructor orders meThat these my dread accusers meet reply.
Behold, the blood that clotted on my handHas slept and faded from it! I have washedHence the pollution of my Mother's death. 'Twas Phœbus purified me. It were longTo tell the men with whom I since have dweltWithout communicating stain or sin.All things grow fainter and decay with Time,All things beneath his footsteps are effaced.—I raise my spotless hands; and I invoke,With pure and guiltless lips, Pallas the QueenOf this fair region, to her votary's aid:I call on her to rise and rescue me.
CHORUS.Neither Apollo's nor Athenè's aidShall save thee now, so that thou perish notDespised, rejected, ignorant of joy,A bloodless being, to a shadow wornBy Powers Infernal.—What! shalt thou contendIn answer? thou, that hast been fatted upAs my devoted victim?—Thou aliveShalt banquet me, although thou fall not yetSlain at the altar's foot.———Now hear the strain,The Hymn of horror that I bind thee with!
Sisters, form our mystic round,Raise the notes of curse and hate,Tell the deeds to which we're bound,Tell our ministry of Fate! Stern is our wrath, but justly stern;And they whose hands from guilt are pureThe Furies' terrors never learn;The Innocent may sleep secure.
But the Murderer, who triesHis hands to concealWhich the blood-stain dyes,We, just to the dead,Who for vengeance appeal,Accuse of pollution,And dire retributionExact for the crime from the guilty head.
Night! my invocation hear;Night! who barest me to beTo the dead a scourge of fear,And those the light of life that see:Hear me, Mother, for the SonOf Latona injures me,And strives to rescue from me oneOn whom the curse of Matricide must be!
O'er our victim raise the strain,To smite and warp the jarring brain,To sway the will, the thoughts to bind,To light up madness in the mind: The Furies' Hymn, whose numbers rollLike harsh stern fetters o'er the soul,And waste the mortal wretch away,Spirit and frame, in slow decay!
This is the curse by Fate ordain'dIts chains around the man to wind,Whose hands with kindred blood are stain'dNo succour may the doom'd-one findThus must he suffer, till he dieAnd sink among the shades below;Nor may he then from judgment fly,His death is no release from woe.
O'er our victim raise the strain,To smite and warp the jarring brain,To sway the will, the thoughts to bind,To light up madness in the mindThe Furies' Hymn, whose numbers rollLike harsh stern fetters o'er the soul,And waste the mortal wretch away,Spirit and frame, in slow decay!
- ↑ See Introductory Observations, at page 1.