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 κελεύσμασιν
Ἥκω, κ.τ.λ.
Ἥκω, κ.τ.λ.
ORESTES.
I seek thy shrine, Athenè, not unbidden
By Power Divine. Apollo led my steps.
But do thou, Mighty Goddess, look on me
With mercy; nor reject a suppliant,
Accused indeed of murder, but to whom
Now no pollution clings. My hands are clean,
And offence is dulled and worn away
By the long course of wanderings and woes
Which I, by Phœbus ordered, have endured.
To whose behests obedient, I approach
Thine image, Goddess; and must here remain
Until my cause be finally adjudged.
I seek thy shrine, Athenè, not unbidden
By Power Divine. Apollo led my steps.
But do thou, Mighty Goddess, look on me
With mercy; nor reject a suppliant,
Accused indeed of murder, but to whom
Now no pollution clings. My hands are clean,
And offence is dulled and worn away
By the long course of wanderings and woes
Which I, by Phœbus ordered, have endured.
To whose behests obedient, I approach
Thine image, Goddess; and must here remain
Until 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 earth
We have explored; and hither o'er the sea
Urged 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 Matricide
Hence unpunished flee!
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 earth
We have explored; and hither o'er the sea
Urged 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 Matricide
Hence 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.
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 pay
Unsleeping pangs. There shalt thou join, and know
Others that Guilt's dread sentence undergo,—
The Treacherous Host and Guest, the Thankless Child,
The Bold Blaspheming Wretch that hath the Gods reviled.
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 pay
Unsleeping pangs. There shalt thou join, and know
Others 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 mind
With an all-recording pen
Writing the crimes of human-kind,
Exacts a stern account from erring men.
Before whose eye each mortal's acts are spread;
Who, in the tablets of his mind
With an all-recording pen
Writing the crimes of human-kind,
Exacts a stern account from erring men.
ORESTES.
Taught by long-suffering I am skill'd in arts
To purify the sinful; and I know
Both when to speak and when is silence best.
And now a wise Instructor orders me
That these my dread accusers meet reply.
Taught by long-suffering I am skill'd in arts
To purify the sinful; and I know
Both when to speak and when is silence best.
And now a wise Instructor orders me
That these my dread accusers meet reply.
Behold, the blood that clotted on my hand
Has slept and faded from it! I have washed
Hence the pollution of my Mother's death.
'Twas Phœbus purified me. It were long
To tell the men with whom I since have dwelt
Without 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 Queen
Of this fair region, to her votary's aid:
I call on her to rise and rescue me.
Has slept and faded from it! I have washed
Hence the pollution of my Mother's death.
'Twas Phœbus purified me. It were long
To tell the men with whom I since have dwelt
Without 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 Queen
Of this fair region, to her votary's aid:
I call on her to rise and rescue me.
CHORUS.
Neither Apollo's nor Athenè's aid
Shall save thee now, so that thou perish not
Despised, rejected, ignorant of joy,
A bloodless being, to a shadow worn
By Powers Infernal.—What! shalt thou contend
In answer? thou, that hast been fatted up
As my devoted victim?—Thou alive
Shalt banquet me, although thou fall not yet
Slain at the altar's foot.———Now hear the strain,
The Hymn of horror that I bind thee with!
Neither Apollo's nor Athenè's aid
Shall save thee now, so that thou perish not
Despised, rejected, ignorant of joy,
A bloodless being, to a shadow worn
By Powers Infernal.—What! shalt thou contend
In answer? thou, that hast been fatted up
As my devoted victim?—Thou alive
Shalt banquet me, although thou fall not yet
Slain 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 pure
The Furies' terrors never learn;
The Innocent may sleep secure.
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 pure
The Furies' terrors never learn;
The Innocent may sleep secure.
But the Murderer, who tries
His hands to conceal
Which the blood-stain dyes,
We, just to the dead,
Who for vengeance appeal,
Accuse of pollution,
And dire retribution
Exact for the crime from the guilty head.
His hands to conceal
Which the blood-stain dyes,
We, just to the dead,
Who for vengeance appeal,
Accuse of pollution,
And dire retribution
Exact for the crime from the guilty head.
Night! my invocation hear;
Night! who barest me to be
To the dead a scourge of fear,
And those the light of life that see:
Hear me, Mother, for the Son
Of Latona injures me,
And strives to rescue from me one
On whom the curse of Matricide must be!
Night! who barest me to be
To the dead a scourge of fear,
And those the light of life that see:
Hear me, Mother, for the Son
Of Latona injures me,
And strives to rescue from me one
On 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 roll
Like harsh stern fetters o'er the soul,
And waste the mortal wretch away,
Spirit and frame, in slow decay!
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 roll
Like 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'd
Its chains around the man to wind,
Whose hands with kindred blood are stain'd
No succour may the doom'd-one find
Thus must he suffer, till he die
And sink among the shades below;
Nor may he then from judgment fly,
His death is no release from woe.
Its chains around the man to wind,
Whose hands with kindred blood are stain'd
No succour may the doom'd-one find
Thus must he suffer, till he die
And 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 mind
The Furies' Hymn, whose numbers roll
Like harsh stern fetters o'er the soul,
And waste the mortal wretch away,
Spirit and frame, in slow decay!
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 roll
Like 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.