Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/428

410 Like that last fatal feast of ours at Troy. The couches gleam with Trojan tapestries; Their wine they quaff from rare old cups of gold That once cheered great Assaracus; and see, The king himself, in 'broidered vestment clad, Sits high in triumph at the table's head, With Priam's noble spoils upon his breast. Now comes his queen and bids him put away The garment which his enemy has worn, And don instead the robe which she has made With loving thoughts of him Oh, horrid deed! I shudder at the sight. Shall that base man, That exile, smite a king? the paramour The husband slay? The fatal hour has come. The second course shall flow with royal bloody And gory streams shall mingle with the wine. And now the king has donned the deadly robe, Which gives him bound and helpless to his fate. His hands no outlet find; the clinging gown Enwraps his head in dark and smothering folds. With trembling hand the coward paramour Now smites the king, but not with deadly wound; For in mid stroke his nerveless hand is stayed. But, as some shaggy boar in forest wilds, Within the net's strong meshes caught, still strives And strains to burst his bonds, yet all in vain: So Agamemnon seeks to throw aside The floating, blinding folds. In vain; and yet, Though blind and bound, he seeks his enemy. Now frenzied Clytemnestra snatches up A two-edged battle-ax; and, as the priest, Before he smites the sacrificial bull, Marks well the spot and meditates his aim: So she her impious weapon balances. He has the blow. 'Tis done. The severed head Hangs loosely down, and floods the trunk with gore. Nor do they even yet their weapons stay: The base-born wretch hacks at the lifeless corpse,