Page:Agamemnon (Murray 1920).djvu/77

vv. 1308–1326.

What turns thee in that blind

Horror? Unless some loathing of the mind

Death drifting from the doors, and blood like rain!

'Tis but the dumb beasts at the altar slain.

And vapours from a charnel-house See there!

'Tis Tyrian incense clouding in the air.

So be it!—I will go, in yonder room

To weep mine own and Agamemnon's doom.

May death be all! Strangers, I am no bird

That pipeth trembling at a thicket stirred

By the empty wind. Bear witness on that day

When woman for this woman's life shall pay,

And man for man ill-mated low shall lie:

I ask this boon, as being about to die.

Alas, I pity thee thy mystic fate!

One word, one dirge-song would I utter yet

O'er mine own corpse. To this last shining Sun

I pray that, when the Avenger's work is done,

His enemies may remember this thing too,

This little thing, the woman slave they slew!