Agamemnon (320-450)

This day the Achaeans hold Troy. Within the town there sounds loud, I believe, a clamor of voices which will not blend. Pour vinegar and oil into the same vessel and you will say that, as foes, they keep apart; so the cries of vanquished and victors greet the ear,

distinct as their fortunes are diverse. Those, flung upon the corpses of their husbands and their brothers, children upon the bodies of their aged fathers who gave them life, bewail from lips no longer free the death of their dearest ones, while these—

a night of restless toil after battle sets them down famished to break their fast on such fare as the town affords; not faring according to rank, but as each man has drawn his lot by chance.

And even now they are quartered in the captured Trojan homes, delivered from the frosts and dew of the naked sky, and like happy men will sleep all the night without a guard. Now if they keep clear of guilt towards the gods of the town—those of the conquered land—and towards their shrines,

the captors shall not be made captives in their turn. Only may no mad impulse first assail the army, overmastered by greed, to pillage what they should not! For to win safe passage home they need to travel back the other length of their double course.

But even if, without having offended the gods, our troops should reach home, the grievous suffering of the dead might still remain awake—if no fresh disaster transpires. These are my woman’s words; but may the good prevail clearly for all to see!

For, choosing thus, I have chosen the enjoyment of many a blessing.

Lady, you speak as wisely as a prudent man. And, for my part, now that I have listened to your certain proofs, I prepare to address due prayers of thanksgiving to the gods; for a success has been achieved that well repays the toil.

Hail, sovereign Zeus, and you kindly Night, you who have given us great glory, you who cast your meshed snare upon the towered walls of Troy, so that neither old nor young could overleap

the huge enslaving net of all-conquering Destruction. Great Zeus it is, lord of host and guest, whom I revere—he has brought this to pass. He long kept his bow bent against Alexander

until his bolt would neither fall short of the mark nor, flying beyond the stars, be launched in vain.

The stroke of Zeus they may call it; his hand can be traced there. As he determines, so he acts. Someone said

that the gods do not trouble themselves to remember mortals who trample underfoot the grace of things not to be touched. But that man was impious! Now it stands revealed!

The penalty for reckless crime is ruin when men breathe a spirit of pride above just measure, because their mansions teem with more abundance than is good for them. But let there be such wealth as brings no distress, enough to satisfy

a sensible man. For riches do not protect the man who in wantonness has kicked the mighty altar of Justice into obscurity.

Perverse Temptation, the overmastering child of designing Destruction, drives men on; and every remedy is futile. His evil is not hidden; it shines forth, a baleful gleam.

Like base metal beneath the touchstone’s rub, when tested he shows the blackness of his grain (for he is like a child who chases a winged bird)

and upon his people he brings a taint against which there is no defence. No god listens to his prayers. The man associated with such deeds, him they destroy in his unrighteousness. And such was Paris, who came

to the house of the sons of Atreus and dishonoured the hospitality of his host by stealing away a wedded wife.

But she, bequeathing to her people the clang of shield and spear and army of fleets, and bringing to Ilium destruction in place of dowry, with light step she passed through the gates—daring a deed undareable. Then loud wailed the seers of the house crying,

Alas, alas, for the home, the home, and for the princes! Alas for the husband’s bed and the impress of her form so dear! He sits apart in the anguish of his grief, silent, dishonored but making no reproach. In his yearning for her who sped beyond the sea,

a phantom will seem to be lord of the house. The grace of fair-formed statues is hateful to him; and in the hunger of his eyes all loveliness is departed.

Mournful apparitions come to him in dreams, bringing only vain joy; for vainly, whenever in his imagination a man sees delights,

straightaway the vision, slipping through his arms, is gone, winging its flight along the paths of sleep. Such are the sorrows at hearth and home, but here are sorrows surpassing these; and at large, in every house of all who went forth together from the land of Hellas,

unbearable grief is seen. Many things pierce the heart. Each knows whom he sent forth. But to the home of each come

urns and ashes[*], not living men.

Ares barters the bodies of men for gold; he holds his balance in the contest of the spear; and

back from Ilium to their loved ones he sends a heavy dust passed through his burning, a dust cried over with plenteous tears, in place of men sending well made urns with ashes.

So they lament, praising now this one: How skilled in battle! now that one: Fallen nobly in the carnage,—for another’s wife— some mutter in secret, and

grief charged with resentment spreads stealthily against the sons of Atreus, champions in the strife. But there far from home, around the city’s walls, those in their beauty’s bloom have graves in Ilium—