Yea, and before the wall
Violent division the fulness of land and town
      Shall waste withal;
If only God's eye gloom not against our gates,
  And the great War-curb of Troy, fore-smitten, fail.
For Pity lives, and those wingèd Hounds she hates,
  Which tore in the Trembler's body the unborn beast.
And Artemis abhorreth the eagles' feast."
    Sorrow, sing sorrow: but good prevail, prevail!

(He prays to Artemis to grant the fulfilment of the Sign, but, as his vision increases, he is afraid and calls on Paian, the Healer, to hold her back.)

   "Thou beautiful One, thou tender lover
      Of the dewy breath of the Lion's child;
    Thou the delight, through den and cover,
      Of the young life at the breast of the wild,
Yet, oh, fulfill, fulfill The sign of the Eagles' Kill!
Be the vision accepted, albeit horrible….
But I-ê, I-ê! Stay her, O Paian, stay!
For lo, upon other evil her heart she setteth,
  Long wastes of wind, held ship and unventured sea,
On, on, till another Shedding of Blood be wrought:
They kill but feast not; they pray not; the law is broken;
Strife in the flesh, and the bride she obeyeth not,
And beyond, beyond, there abideth in wrath reawoken—
It plotteth, it haunteth the house, yea, it never forgetteth—
      Wrath for a child to be."
So Calchas, reading the wayside eagles' sign,
  Spake to the Kings, blessings and words of bale;
      And like his song be thine,
Sorrow, sing sorrow: but good prevail, prevail!

(Such religion belongs to old and barbarous gods, and brings no peace. I turn to Zeus, who has shown man how to Learn by Suffering.)

Zeus! Zeus, whate'er He be,
If this name He love to hear
This He shall be called of me.
Searching earth and sea and air

Refuge nowhere can I find
Save Him only, if my mind
Will cast off before it die
The burden of this vanity.

One there was who reigned of old,
Big with wrath to brave and blast,
Lo, his name is no more told!
And who followed met at last
His Third-thrower, and is gone.
Only they whose hearts have known
Zeus, the Conqueror and the Friend,
They shall win their vision's end;

Zeus the Guide, who made man turn
Thought-ward, Zeus, who did ordain
Man by Suffering shall Learn.
So the heart of him, again
Aching with remembered pain,
Bleeds and sleepeth not, until
Wisdom comes against his will.
'Tis the gift of One by strife
Lifted to the throne of life.

(AGAMEMNON accepted the sign. Then came long delay, and storm while the fleet lay at Aulis.)

So that day the Elder Lord,
Marshal of the Achaian ships,
Strove not with the prophet's word,
Bowed him to his fate's eclipse,
When with empty jars and lips
Parched and seas impassable
Fate on that Greek army fell,
Fronting Chalcis as it lay,
By Aulis in the swirling bay.

(Till at last Calchas answered that Artemis was wroth and demanded the death of AGAMEMNON'S daughter. The King's doubt and grief.)

And winds, winds blew from Strymon River,
Unharboured, starving, winds of waste endeavour,
Man-blinding, pitiless to cord and bulwark,
  And the waste of days was made long, more long,
Till the flower of Argos was aghast and withered;
  Then through the storm rose the War-seer's song,
And told of medicine that should tame the tempest,
  But bow the Princes to a direr wrong.
Then "Artemis" he whispered, he named the name;
And the brother Kings they shook in the hearts of them,
And smote on the earth their staves, and the tears came.

But the King, the elder, hath found voice and spoken:
"A heavy doom, sure, if God's will were broken;
But to slay mine own child, who my house delighteth,
  Is that not heavy? That her blood should flow
On her father's hand, hard beside an altar?
  My path is sorrow wheresoe'er I go.
Shall Agamemnon fail his ships and people,
  And the hosts of Hellas melt as melts the snow?
They cry, they thirst, for a death that shall break the spell,
For a Virgin's blood: 'tis a rite of old, men tell.
And they burn with longing.—O God may the end be well!"

(But ambition drove him, till he consented to the sin of slaying his daughter, Iphigenia, as a sacrifice.)

To the yoke of Must-Be he bowed him slowly,
  And a strange wind within his bosom tossed,
A wind of dark thought, unclean, unholy;
  And he rose up, daring to the uttermost.
For men are boldened by a Blindness, straying
  Toward base desire, which brings grief hereafter,
    Yea, and itself is grief;
So this man hardened to his own child's slaying,
  As help to avenge him for a woman's laughter
    And bring his ships relief!

Her "Father, Father," her sad cry that lingered,
  Her virgin heart's breath they held all as naught,
Those bronze-clad witnesses and battle-hungered;
  And there they prayed, and when the prayer was wrought
He charged the young men to uplift and bind her,
  As ye lift a wild kid, high above the altar,
    Fierce-huddling forward, fallen, clinging sore
To the robe that wrapt her; yea, he bids them hinder
  The sweet mouth's utterance, the cries that falter,
    —His curse for evermore!—

With violence and a curb's voiceless wrath.
  Her stole of saffron then to the ground she threw,
And her eye with an arrow of pity found its path
    To each man's heart that slew:
A face in a picture, striving amazedly;
  The little maid who danced at her father's board,
The innocent voice man's love came never nigh,
Who joined to his her little paean-cry
    When the third cup was poured….

What came thereafter I saw not neither tell.
  But the craft of Calchas failed not.—'Tis written, He
Who Suffereth Shall Learn; the law holdeth well.
    And that which is to be,
Ye will know at last; why weep before the hour?
  For come it shall, as out of darkness dawn.
Only may good from all this evil flower;
So prays this Heart of Argos, this frail tower
    Guarding the land alone.

[As they cease, CLYTEMNESTRA comes from the Palace with Attendants. She has finished her prayer and sacrifice, and is now wrought up to face the meeting with her husband. The Leader approaches her.

LEADER.

Before thy state, O Queen, I bow mine eyes.
'Tis written, when the man's throne empty lies,
The woman shall be honoured.—Hast thou heard
Some tiding sure? Or is it Hope, hath stirred
To fire these altars? Dearly though we seek
To learn, 'tis thine to speak or not to speak.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Glad-voiced, the old saw telleth, comes this morn,
The Star-child of a dancing midnight born,
And beareth to thine ear a word of joy
Beyond all hope: the Greek hath taken Troy.

LEADER.

How?
Thy word flies past me, being incredible.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Ilion is ours. No riddling tale I tell.

LEADER.

Such joy comes