A poem by Aeschylus (c. 525 – c. 456 Before Christ )
CASSANDRA
Phoebus Apollo!
CHORUS
Hark!
The lips at last unlocking.
CASSANDRA
Phoebus! Phoebus!
CHORUS
Well, what of Phoebus, maiden? though a name
‘Tis but disparagement to call upon
In misery.
CASSANDRA
Apollo! Apollo! Again!
Oh, the burning arrow through the brain!
Phoebus Apollo! Apollo!
CHORUS
Seemingly
Possessed indeed–whether by–
CASSANDRA
Phoebus! Phoebus!
Through trampled ashes, blood, and fiery rain,
Over water seething, and behind the breathing
War-horse in the darkness–till you rose again,
Took the helm–took the rein–
CHORUS
As one that half asleep at dawn recalls
A night of Horror!
CASSANDRA
Hither, whither, Phoebus? And with whom,
Leading me, lighting me–
CHORUS
I can answer that–
CASSANDRA
Down to what slaughter-house!
Foh! the smell of carnage through the door
Scares me from it–drags me toward it–
Phoebus Apollo! Apollo!
CHORUS
One of the dismal prophet-pack, it seems,
That hunt the trail of blood. But here at fault–
This is no den of slaughter, but the house
Of Agamemnon.
CASSANDRA
Down upon the towers,
Phantoms of two mangled children hover–and a famished man,
At an empty table glaring, seizes and devours!
CHORUS
Thyestes and his children! Strange enough
For any maiden from abroad to know,
Or, knowing–
CASSANDRA
And look! in the chamber below
The terrible Woman, listening, watching,
Under a mask, preparing the blow
In the fold of her robe–
CHORUS
Nay, but again at fault:
For in the tragic story of this House–
Unless, indeed the fatal Helen–No
woman–
CASSANDRA
No Woman–Tisiphone! Daughter
Of Tartarus–love-grinning Woman above,
Dragon-tailed under–honey-tongued, Harpy-clawed,
Into the glittering meshes of slaughter
She wheedles, entices him into the poisonous
Fold of the serpent–
CHORUS
Peace, mad woman, peace!
Whose stony lips once open vomit out
Such uncouth horrors.
CASSANDRA
I tell you the lioness
Slaughters the Lion asleep; and lifting
Her blood-dripping fangs buried deep in his mane,
Glaring about her insatiable, bellowing,
Bounds hither–Phoebus Apollo, Apollo, Apollo!
Whither have you led me, under night alive with fire,
Through the trampled ashes of the city of my sire,
From my slaughtered kinsmen, fallen throne, insulted shrine,
Slave-like to be butchered, the daughter of a royal line!
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External links
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Poems in English
- Sonnet 76: Why is my verse so barren of new pride? by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 75: So are you to my thoughts as food to life by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CVIII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CVII: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor the Prophetic Soul by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CVII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CVI by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CV by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CLIV by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CLIII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CLII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CLI by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CL by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CIX by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CIV by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CIII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CII by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet CI by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet C by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 9: Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring by William Shakespeare
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Aeschylus (525 Before Christ to 456 B.C.) was an ancient Greek author of Greek tragedy, and is often described as the father of tragedy. Academics’ knowledge of the genre begins with his work, and understanding of earlier Greek tragedy is largely based on inferences made from reading his surviving plays. According to Aristotle, he expanded the number of characters in the theatre and allowed conflict among them.