Agamemnon’s Fate

40“When chaste Persephone had made the ghosts
Of women scatter right and left, there came
The soul of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son.
He came attended by a throng of those
Who in the palace of Aegisthus met
A fate like his and died. When he had drunk
The dark red blood, he knew me at a look,
And wailed aloud, and, bursting into tears,
Stretched out his hands to touch me; but no power
Was there of grasp or pressure, such as once
Dwelt in those active limbs. I could not help
But weep at sight of him, for from my heart
I pitied him, and spoke these winged words: —

41“ ‘Most glorious son of Atreus, king of men!
How, Agamemnon, has the fate that brings
To man the everlasting sleep of death
Overtaken you? Did Poseidon, calling up
The winds in all their fury, make your fleet
A wreck, or did your enemies on land
Smite you, as you were driving off their beeves
And their fair flocks, or fighting to defend
Some city, and the helpless women there?’

42“I spoke, and Agamemnon thus replied: —
‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise,
It was not that Poseidon calling up the winds
In all their fury wrecked me in my fleet,
Nor hostile warriors smote me on the land,
But that Aegisthus, bent upon my death,
Plotted against me with my guilty wife,
And bade me to his house and slew me there,
Even at the banquet, as a hind might slay
A bullock at the stall. With me they slew
My comrades, as a herd of white-toothed swine
Are slaughtered for some man of large estates,
Who makes a wedding or a solemn feast.
You have seen many perish by the sword
In the hard battle, one by one, and yet
You would have pitied us, had you beheld
The slain beside the wine-jar, and beneath
The loaded tables, while the pavement swam
With blood. I heard Cassandra’s piteous cry,
The cry of Priam’s daughter, stricken down
By treacherous Clytemnestra at my side.
And there I lay, and, dying, raised my hands
To grasp my sword. The shameless woman went
Her way, nor stayed to close my eyes, nor press
My mouth into its place, although my soul
Was on its way to Hades. There is naught
That lives more horrible, more lost to shame,
Than is the woman who has brought her mind
To compass deeds like these —the wretch who plans
So foul a crime —the murder of the man
Whom she a virgin wedded. I had looked
For a warm welcome from my children here,
And all my household in my ancient home.
This woman, deep in wickedness, has brought
Disgrace upon herself and all her sex,
Even those who give their thoughts to doing good.’