The Sacrifice Of Iphigenia

A poem by Aeschylus (c. 525 – c. 456 Before Christ )

Now long and long from wintry Strymon blew

The weary, hungry, anchor-straining blasts,

The winds that wandering seamen dearly rue,

Nor spared the cables worn and groaning masts;

And, lingering on, in indolent delay,

Slow wasted all the strength of Greece away.

But when the shrill-voiced prophet ‘gan proclaim

That remedy more dismal and more dread

Than the drear weather blackening overhead,

And spoke in Artemis’ most awful name,

The sons of Atreus, ‘mid their armed peers,

Their sceptres dashed to earth, and each broke out in tears,

And thus the elder king began to say:

“Dire doom! to disobey the gods’ commands!

More dire, my child, mine house’s pride, to slay,

Dabbling in virgin blood a father’s hands.

Alas! alas! which way to fly?

As base deserter quit the host,

The pride and strength of our great league all lost?

Should I the storm-appeasing rite deny,

Will not their wrathfullest wrath rage up and swell?

Exact the virgin’s blood?-oh, would ‘t were o’er and well!”

So, ‘neath Necessity’s stern yoke he passed,

And his lost soul, with impious impulse veering,

Surrendered to the accursed unholy blast,

Warped to the dire extreme of human daring.

The frenzy of affliction still

Maddens, dire counselor, man’s soul to ill.

So he endured to be the priest

In that child-slaughtering rite unblest,

The first full offering of that host

In fatal war for a bad woman lost.

The prayers, the mute appeal to her hard sire,

Her youth, her virgin beauty,

Naught heeded they, the chiefs for war on fire.

So to the ministers of that dire duty

(First having prayed) the father gave the sign,

Like some soft kid, to lift her to the shrine.

There lay she prone,

Her graceful garments round her thrown;

But first her beauteous mouth around

Their violent bonds they wound,

With their rude inarticulate might,

Lest her dread curse the fatal house should smite.

But she her saffron robe to earth let fall:

The shaft of pity from her eye

Transpierced that awful priesthood-one and all.

Lovely as in a picture stood she by

As she would speak. Thus at her father’s feasts

The virgin, ‘mid the reveling guests,

Was wont with her chaste voice to supplicate

For her dear father an auspicious fate.

I saw no more! to speak more is not mine;

Not unfulfilled was Calchas’ lore divine.

Eternal justice still will bring

Wisdom out of suffering.

So to the fond desire farewell,

The inevitable future to foretell;

‘Tis but our woe to antedate;

Joint knit with joint, expands the full-formed fate.

Yet at the end of these dark days

May prospering weal return at length;

Thus in his spirit prays

He of the Apian land the sole remaining strength.

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Poems in English 

• Sonnet 115: Those lines that I before have writ do lie by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 114: Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 113: Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 112: Your love and pity doth th’ impression fill by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 111: O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 110: Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear’st love to any by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 109: O, never say that I was false of heart by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 108: What’s in the brain that ink may character by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 106: When in the chronicle of wasted time by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 104: To me, fair friend, you never can be old by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 103: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 102: My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 101: O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 100: Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet LIV by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Silvia by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sigh No More by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

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