What omens to our leaders then befell,

In life, by God's great gift to us belong

O'er all Achæans sway in equal share,

The youth of Hellas that own each as lord,

By mighty birds against the Troïan coast,

Kings of the air to kings of men appearing

Near to the palace, on the right hand veering;

A pregnant hare with all her unborn young,

All her life's course in death's deep darkness flung.

Oh raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail;

Stood gazing on the Atreidæ standing near,

And those who led the host with shield and spear,

And Priam's city in the dust lay low,

Countless, which they before their high towers keep,

Only take heed that no curse mar your joy,

Nor blunt the edge of curb that Troïa waiteth,

Smitten too soon, for Artemis still hateth

Who slay the mother with the young unborn,

And looks upon the eagle's feast with scorn.

Ah! raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail;

For she, the Fair One, though her mercy shields

And yeanling young of beasts that roam the fields,

And now I call on him, our Healer true,

Lest she upon the Danai send delays

That keep our ships through many weary days,

Unblest alike by man and God's high law,

Evil close clinging, working sore despite,

Watching the hour its eager thirst to sate,

Vengeance on those who helpless infants slew.”

Such things, ill mixed with good, great Calchas spake,

As destined by the birds' strange auguries;

And we too now our echoing answer make

Oh raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail;

For weighing all things else I fail to tell

Of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce,

And He who followed now is driven afar,

With 'bated breath to Zeus his honour due,

To Zeus, who men in wisdom's path doth train,

Hath given the fixèd law that pain is gain;

True counsel falleth on the heart like dew,

The boding thoughts that out of ill deeds grew;

This too They work who sit enthronèd in their might.

And then the elder leader of great fame

Not bold enough a holy seer to blame

But tempered to the fate that on him fell;—

With tarryings long, scant stores, and surging swell,

Chalkis still far off seen, and baffled hopes perplexed;

And stormy blasts that down from Strymon sweep,

And breed sore famine with the long delay,

Hurl forth our men upon the homeless deep

Sparing nor ships, nor ropes, nor sailing gear,

Doubling the weary months, and vexing still

Then when as mightier charm for that dread ill,

From the seer's lips did “Artemis” resound,

The Atreidæ smote their staves upon the ground,

And with no power to check, shed many a bitter tear.

And then the elder of the chiefs thus cried:

“Great woe it is the Gods to disobey;

Great woe if I my child, my home's fond pride,

Polluting with the streams of maiden's blood

A father's hands, the holy altar near.

How can I loss of ships and comrades bear?

With craving strong, the blood of maiden pure

As charm to lull the winds and calm ensure;

Ah, may there come the good to which our hopes aspire!”

Pouring the golden streams of saffron veil,

At each of those who stood prepared to slay,

And wishing, all in vain, her thoughts to say;

To chant the praises of her sire's high state,

His fame, thrice blest of Heaven, to celebrate.

Saw not, nor may I tell, but not in vain

The lesson “pain is gain” for them to learn:

With voice that bids “Good-bye,” we from it turn

To-morrow's dawn, and good luck with it come!

So speaks the guardian of this Apian home.

If so one dare to speak, by stroke of Zeus;

The doom that He decreed their soul subdues.

The Gods for mortal men care not at all,

Though they with reckless feet tread holiest way,

Now is it to the children's children clear

More than was meet, breathed Discord's spirit drear;

While yet their houses all rich store did hold

Ah! may my lot be free from all that harms,

From calm contentment with her tranquil charms;

That serves as bulwark 'gainst the subtle stealth

For one who, in the pride of wanton mood,

Spurns the great altar of the Right and Good.

Urges him on, resistless in its might,

It knows no healing, is not hid in night,

Like bronze that will not stand the test of wear,

A tarnished blackness in its hue we mark;

And like a boy who doth a bird pursue

He to his country hopeless woe doth bring;

But sendeth down the unrighteous to despair,

His entrance to the Atreidæ's home to win,

To shame that brand indelible hath set

Upon the board where host and guest were met.

And leaving to her countrymen to bear

Wild whirl of ships of war and shield and spear,

She hath passed quickly through the palace gate,

And lo! the minstrel seers bewail the fate

“Woe for the kingly house and for its lord;

Woe for the marriage-bed and paths which still

There stands he, wronged, yet speaking not a word

Seeing with utter woe that he is left,

For her who now is far beyond the sea,

A phantom queen through all the house shall rove;

The sculptured forms of beauty once did give;

And in the penury of eyes that live,

And spectral forms in visions of the night

Come, bringing sorrow with their vain delight:

And, passing through his hands, the dream is gone

The vision far away on paths of sleep.”

Upon the sacred altar of the hearth,

And worse than these remain for those who roam

In every house, in number measureless,

For those who from his home he saw depart

And now, instead of warrior's living frame,

There cometh to the home where each did dwell

The scanty ashes, relics of the flame,

For Ares, who from bodies of the slain

And holdeth, like a trafficker, his scales,

E'en where the torrent rush of war prevails,

But little dust, yet burden sore for friends,

O'er which, smooth-lying in the brazen urn,

Now for this man as foremost in the strife,

And now for that who in the battle fell,

And muttered curses some in secret tell,

Against the Atreidæ who as champions led

And some around the wall, the goodly dead,

Have there in alien land their monument,

Take in the sleep of death their last repose.

And lo! the murmurs which our country fill

And boding anxious fear expecteth still

Not blind the Gods, but giving fullest heed

To those who cause a nation's wounds to bleed;

And the dark-robed Erinnyes in due time

Plunge him who prospers though defiled by crime

In deepest gloom, and through its formless range

O'er-vaunted glory is a perilous thing;

For on it Zeus, whose glance fills all with fear,

That rouseth not the Gods to jealousy.

May I ne'er tread the devastator's ways,

My life wear out in drear captivity!

And now at bidding of the courier-flame,

A murmur swift through all the city came;

But whether it with truth its course pursues,

Who knows? or whether God who dwells on high,

Who is so childish, or of sense bereft,

That message of the herald fire has left,

Because the rumour changes in its sound?

To accept a boon before the truth is found:

Too quickly she believes in tidings good,

Is over-passed, and with quick doom of death

A rumour spread by woman perisheth.

Who was it named her with such foresight clear?

In strange prevision of her work of fear,

Who gave that war-wed, strife-upstirring one

For 'twas through her that Hellas was undone,

Out from the curtains, gorgeous in their fold,

Wafted by breeze of Zephyr, earth's strong child,

And hosts of mighty men, as hunters bold

Wait on the track of those who steered their way

Unseen where Simois flows by leafy field,

Urged by a strife that came with power to slay.

And so the wrath which doth its work fulfil

A marriage marring all, avenging still

And outrage foul on Zeus, of host and guest

The bridal hymn of marriage-feast unblest

Priam's ancient city waileth very sore,

And calls on Paris unto dark doom wed,

For all the blood of heroes vainly shed,

And bearing through the long protracted years

A life of wailing grief and bitter tears.

A lion's whelp within his home to dwell,

Weaned from the mother's milk it loved so well:

Loved by the children, petted by the old,

As one an infant newly-born would hold,

With eye that gleamed beneath the fondling hand,

And fawning as at hunger's strong command.

It showed the inbred nature of its sire,

A feast to be that fostering nurture's hire;

The house was stained with blood as with a curse

A murderous mischief waxing worse and worse,

Sent as from God a priest from Atè fell,

And reared within the man's own house to dwell.

So I would say to Ilion then there came

The gentle pride and joy of noble fame,

The eye's soft glance that all the soul doth thrill;

And of the marriage feast wrought bitter end,

Coming to dwell where Priam's sons abide,

Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest,

A true Erinnys, by all wives unblest.

There lives a saying framed of ancient days,

That great good fortune never childless stays,

Hold a far other and a worthier creed:

The impious act is by ill issue known,

While still for all who love the Truth and Right,

Good fortune prospers, fairer and more bright.

But wanton Outrage done in days of old

And mocks at human woes with scorn o'erbold,

And lawless Might that doth all hindrance spurn,

Two Atès fell within their dwelling-place,

Yet Justice still shines bright in dwellings murk

But gold-bespangled homes, where guilt doth lurk,

And little recks the praise the prosperous hear,

But still towards its destined goal she brings

What form of welcome right and meet,

What homage thy approach to greet,

Shall I now use in measure true,

Nor more nor less than that is due?

Many men there are, I wis,

Who in seeming place their bliss,

Caring less for that which is.

If one suffers, then their wail

Loudly doth the ear assail;

Yet have they nor lot nor part

In the grief that stirs the heart;

So too the joyous men will greet

With smileless faces counterfeit:

But shepherd who his own sheep knows

Will scan the lips that fawn and gloze,

Ready still to praise and bless

With weak and watery kindliness.

Thou when thou the host did'st guide

For Helen—truth I will not hide—

In mine eyes had'st features grim,

Such as unskilled art doth limn,

Not guiding well the helm of thought,

And giving souls with grief o'erwrought

False courage from fresh victims brought,

But with nought of surface zeal,

Now full glad of heart I feel,

And hail thy acts as deeds well done:

Thou too in time shall know each one,

And learn who wrongly, who aright

In house or city dwells in might.

Do ever-haunting phantoms hover nigh

Why doth the prophet's strain unbidden still,

Hath faith lost all her former power to fling

That terror from me as an idle thing?

Yet since the ropes were fastened in the sand

When the great naval host to Ilion went,

Time hath passed on to feeble age and spent.

Myself reporting to myself I trace

My mind, taught by itself, cannot forget

With measured sling a part they sacrifice,

Lest the whole house should sink no more to rise,

Nor does the good ship perish utterly:

From Zeus in double plenty, from the earth,

Doth the worn soul from anxious care uplift,

And turns the famished wail to bounding joy and mirth.

In purple stream of death upon the ground,

A charm to call it back again hath found?

Zeus had not sternly warred, as warning given

Out-stripping speech, had given thought free vent.

It sits and moans in sullen discontent,

It shall an issue seasonably fair

Of life's strange course unravel straight and clear,

While in the fever of continuing pain

My soul doth burden sore of troublous anguish bear.

Lo, from the palace door

We wend our way to pour

And in our bitter woe,

Our hands with many a blow

On each fair cheek the nail

Has ploughed full many a trail,

And all to tatters torn

The garments we have worn;

The foldings of the vest

O'er maiden's swelling breast

For now on us the chance

That shuts out joy and dance

A spectral vision clear

Thrills every hair with fear,

In haunted sleep,

Breathing of dire distress,

From innermost recess

Its watch doth keep,

Breaking with cry of fright

The still deep hush of night:

All through the queenly bower

Sharp cry was heard that hour,

And they to whom 'twas given

To read decrees of Heaven,

By solemn pledges bound,

Declared that underground

The dead were wrathful found

And so the godless queen

In eager haste is seen,—

Sends me with gifts like this,

Full graceless grace, I wis,

As if (O mother Earth,

To whom we owe our birth!)

And I would fain delay

This prayer of mine to pray:

What ransom can men pay

Oh, hearth and home of woe!

Oh, utter overthrow!

Foul mists brood o'er our halls:

No ray of sunlight falls;

Thick darkness from the tomb

Of heroes makes the gloom