The Oresteia

A WATCHMAN. I pray the gods to quit me of my toils, To close the watch I keep, this livelong year; For as a watch-dog lying, not at rest, Propped on one arm, upon the palace-roof Of Atreus’ race, too long, too well I know The starry conclave of the midnight sky, Too well, the splendours of the firmament, The lords of light, whose kingly aspect shows— What time they set or climb the sky in turn— The year’s divisions, bringing frost or fire.

And now, as ever, am I set to mark When shall stream up the glow of signal-flame, The bale-fire bright, and tell its Trojan tale— _Troy town is ta’en:_ such issue holds in hope She in whose woman’s breast beats heart of man.

Thus upon mine unrestful couch I lie, Bathed with the dews of night, unvisited By dreams—ah me!—for in the place of sleep Stands Fear as my familiar, and repels The soft repose that would mine eyelids seal. And if at whiles, for the lost balm of sleep, I medicine my soul with melody Of trill or song—anon to tears I turn, Wailing the woe that broods upon this home, Not now by honour guided as of old.

But now at last fair fall the welcome hour That sets me free, whene’er the thick night glow With beacon-fire of hope deferred no more. All hail!

[A beacon-light is seen reddening the distant sky]

Fire of the night, that brings my spirit day, Shedding on Argos light, and dance, and song, Greetings to fortune, hail!

Let my loud summons ring within the ears Of Agamemnon’s queen, that she anon Start from her couch and with a shrill voice cry A joyous welcome to the beacon-blaze, For Ilion’s fall; such fiery message gleams From yon high flame; and I, before the rest, Will foot the lightsome measure of our joy; For I can say, _My master’s dice fell fair— Behold! the triple sice, the lucky flame!_ Now be my lot to clasp, in loyal love, The hand of him restored, who rules our home: Home—but I say no more: upon my tongue Treads hard the ox o’ the adage. Had it voice, The home itself might soothliest tell its tale; I, of set will, speak words the wise may learn, To others, nought remember nor discern.

[Exit. The chorus of old men of Mycenae enter, each leaning on a staff. During their song Clytemnestra appears in the background, kindling the altars]