Agamemnon (1146-1213)

Ah, fate of the clear-voiced nightingale! The gods clothed her in a winged form and gave to her a sweet life without tears[*]. But for me waits destruction by the two-edged sword.

From where come these vain pangs of prophecy that assail you? And why do you mold to melody these terrors with dismal cries blended with piercing strains? How do you know the bounds of the path of your

ill-boding prophecy?

Ah, the marriage, the marriage of Paris, that destroyed his friends! Ah me, Scamander, my native stream! Upon your banks in bygone days, unhappy maid, was I nurtured with fostering care;

but now by Cocytus and the banks of Acheron, I think, I soon must chant my prophecies.

What words are these you utter, words all too plain? A new-born child hearing them could understand. I am smitten with a deadly pain, while,

by reason of your cruel fortune, you cry aloud your pitiful moans that break my heart to hear.

O the sufferings, the sufferings of my city utterly destroyed! Alas, the sacrifices my father offered, the many pasturing cattle slain to save its towers!

Yet they provided no remedy to save the city from suffering even as it has; and I, my soul on fire, must soon fall to the ground.

Your present speech chimes with your former strain.

Surely some malignant spirit, falling upon you with heavy swoop, moves you to chant your piteous woes fraught with death. But the end I am helpless to discover.

And now, no more shall my prophecy peer forth from behind a veil like a new-wedded bride; but

it will rush upon me clear as a fresh wind blowing against the sun’s uprising so as to dash against its rays, like a wave, a woe far mightier than mine. No more by riddles will I instruct you. And bear me witness, as, running close behind,

I scent the track of crimes done long ago. For from this roof never departs a choir chanting in unison, but singing no harmonious tune; for it tells not of good. And so, gorged on human blood, so as to be the more emboldened, a revel-rout of kindred Furies haunts the house,

hard to be drive away. Lodged within its halls they chant their chant, the primal sin; and, each in turn, they spurn with loathing a brother’s bed, for they bitterly spurn the one who defiled it.[*]Have I missed the mark, or, like a true archer, do I strike my quarry?

Or am I prophet of lies, a door-to-door babbler? Bear witness upon your oath that I know the deeds of sin, ancient in story, of this house.

How could an oath, a pledge although given in honor, effect any cure? Yet I marvel at you that,

though bred beyond the sea, you speak truth of a foreign city, even as if you had been present there.

The seer Apollo appointed me to this office.

Can it be that he, a god, was smitten with desire?

Before now I was ashamed to speak of this.

In prosperity all take on airs.

Oh, but he struggled to win me, breathing ardent love for me.

Did you in due course come to the rite of marriage?

I consented to Loxias but broke my word.

Were you already possessed by the art inspired of the god?

Already I prophesied to my countrymen all their disasters.

How came it then that you were unharmed by Loxias’ wrath?

Ever since that fault I could persuade no one of anything.

And yet to us at least the prophecies you utter seem true enough.