The Vision Of Cassandra

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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