Book of illustrations : Ancient Tragedy - Aeschylus

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the same end as wailing premature;

                For with to-morrow's dawn

              It will come clear; may good luck crown our fate!

                So prays the one true guard,

                Nearest and dearest found,

                Of this our Apian land. {248}

EPISODE I

       The Ritual on the Stage being now concluded, Clytaemnestra advances to the front. At the same moment the Choral Ode is finished and the Chorus take up their usual position during the Episodes, drawn up in two lilies in front of the Altar facing the Stage. They speak only by their Foreman (or Corypliceus), and use the ordinary Iambic Metre (equivalent to our Blank Verse).

       The Foreman of the Chorus repeats his enquiries of Clytaemnestra as to the meaning of this sudden rejoicing, guardedly adding that it is his duty to pay respect to his lord's wife in his absence —Clytaemnestra announces that Troy has been taken this last night – rapid interchange of stichomuthic dialogue, the Chorus expressing their amazement as to how the news could travel so fast.

       Cho. What herald could arrive with speed like this?

        Clytaem. Hephiestos flashing forth bright flames from Ida:

                   Beacon to beacon from that courier-fire

                   Sent on its tidings; Ida to the rock

                   Hermaean named, in Lemnos: from the isle

                   The height of Athos, dear to Zeus, received

                   A third great torch of flame, and lifted up,

                   So as on high to skim the broad sea's back,

                   The stalwart fire rejoicing went its way;

                   The pine wood, like a sun, sent forth its light

                   Of golden radiance to Makistos' watch;

                   And he, with no delay, nor unawares

                   Conquered by sleep, performed his courier's part.

                   Far off the torch-light to Euripos' straits

                   Advancing, tells it to Messapion's guard:

                   They, in their turn, lit up and passed it on,

                   Kindling a pile of dry and aged heath.

                   Still strong and fresh the torch, not yet grown dim,

                   Leaping across Asôpos' plain in guise

                   Like a bright moon, towards Kithaeron's rock,

                   Roused the next station of the courier flame.

                   And that far-travelled light the sentries there

                   Refused not, burning more than all yet named:

                   And then the light swooped o'er Gorgôpis' lake,

                   And passing on to Aegiplanctos' mount,

                   Bade the bright fire's due order tarry not;

                   And they, enkindling boundless store, send on

                   A mighty beard of flame, and then it passed

                   The headland e'en that looks on Saron's gulf

                   Still blazing. On it swept, until it came

                   To Arachnaean heights, the watch-tower near;

                   Then here on the Atreidae's roof it swoops,

                   This light, of Ida's fire no doubtful heir.

                   Such is the order of my torch-race games;

                   One from another taking up the course,

                   But here the winner is both first and last;

                   And this sure proof and token now I tell thee,

                   Seeing that my lord hath sent it me from Troïa. {307}

      While the Chorus are still overcome with amazement, Clytaemnestra triumphs over the condition of Troy that morning: like a vessel containing oil and vinegar, the conquered, bewailing their first day of captivity over the corpses of husbands and sons, the victors enjoying their first rest free from the chill dews of night and the sentry's call – and all will be well, if they remember the rights of the Gods in their sack of the city: ah! may they not in their exultation commit some sacrilegious deed of plunder, forgetting that they have only reached the goal, and have the return to make! If they should, the curse of those who have perished might still awake against them [Cl. thus darkly harping upon her secret hope that vengeance may still overtake them for the sacrifice of her daughter.] {345}

      Exit Clytaemnestra, with Attendants.

      After a few words of triumph (in marching rhythm), that Zeus, protector of host and guest, has visited the proud Trojans, and brought them into a net of bondage that neither young nor full-grown can overleap, the Chorus proceed to a more formal expression of their feelings in {357}

CHORAL INTERLUDE I

       breaking, as regularly in the Choral Odes, into highly Lyrical rhythms accompanied with Music and Gesture-dance, the evolutions of which lead them alternately to Right and Left of Orchestra and back to Altar.

       Strophe I: evolutions from Altar to Right.

      Yes: it is the hand of Zeus we may trace in all this! Now what will they say who contend that the Gods care not when mortal men trample under foot the inviolable? Troy knows better now, that once relied on its abounding wealth: ah! moderate fortune is best for the seeker after Wisdom; Wealth is no bulwark to those who in wantonness have spurned the altar of the Right and Just. {375}

       Antistrophe I: evolutions front Right back to Altar, rhythm as in Strophe.

      Such a man is urged on by Impulse, offspring of Infatuation, till his mischief stands out clear, as worthless bronze stripped of its varnish. So Paris sees now his light-hearted crime has brought his city low. He came to the house of the Sons of Atreus, and stole a Queen away, leaving Shame where he had sat as Guest. {392}

       Strophe II: change of rhythm, evolutions from Altar to Left.

                She, leaving to her countrymen at home

                Wild din of spear and shield and ships of war,

                    And bringing, as her dower,

                    To Ilion doom of death,

                Passed very swiftly through the palace gates,

                    Daring what none should dare;

                    And many a wailing cry

                They raised, the minstrel prophets of the house,

                    "Woe

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