Antigone. And to these Theban rulers I declare, If none besides dare bury him, myself Will do that office, heedless of the danger, And think no shame to disobey the State, Paying the last sad duties to a brother. Nature has tender ties, and strongly joins The offspring of the same unhappy mother. And the same wretched father.

FROM THE AGAMEMNON.

"I Agamemnon," says Schlegel in his eloquent lectures on Dramatic Literature, "it was the intention of Eschylus to exhibit to us a sudden fall from the highest pinnacle of prosperity and fame into the abyss of ruin. The prince, the hero, the general of the whole of the Greeks, in the very moment when he has succeeded in concluding the most glorious action, the destruction of Troy, the fame of which is to be re-echoed from the mouths of the greatest poets of all ages, on entering the threshold of his house, after which he has long sighed, is strangled amidst the unsuspected preparations for a festival, according to the expression of Homer, 'like an ox in the stall,' strangled by his faithless wife; her unworthy seducer takes possession of his throne, and the children are consigned to banishment, or to hopeless servitude."

With the view of giving greater effect to this dreadful alteration of fortune, the poet has previously thrown a splendour over the destruction of Troy. This he has done in the first half of the play, in a manner peculiar to himself, and, however singular, well calculated to arrest the imagination. It is of importance to Clytemnestra not to be surprised by the arrival of her husband, and she has therefore arranged an uninterrupted series of signal-fires from Troy to Mycenae, to announce to her the capture of the former, whenever it should take place.

The Drama opens with the soliloquy of a watchman who supplicates the gods for a release

from his toils, as for ten long years he has been exposed to the cold dews of night, has witnessed the various changes of the stars, and looked in vain for the promised signal. He laments the internal ruin of the royal house. At this moment he sees the blaze of the long-wished for fires,

and hastens to announce it to his mistress.-Immediately after this appears the Chorus, composed of old men of Argos, who are not yet made acquainted with the great event, and who, after indulging in desultory, often obscure, allusions to the origin and events of the war, conclude with the following description of

THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENEIA.
MAILED chiefs, whose bosoms burn
For battle, heard in silence stern

Cries that call'd a father's name,

And set at naught pray'rs, cries, and tears,
And her sweet virgin life and blooming years.
Now when the solemn prayer was said,
The father gave the dire command
To the priestly band,

Men with strong hands and ruthless force,
To lift from earth that maiden fair,
Where she had sunk in dumb despair,
And lay with robes all cover'd round,
Hush'd in a swoon upon the ground,
And bear her to the altar dread,
Like a young fawn or mountain kid:
Then round her beauteous mouth to tie
Dumb sullen bands to stop her cry,
Lest aught of an unholy sound
Be heard to breathe those altars round,
Which on the monarch's house might hang a
deadly spell.

Now as she stood, and her descending veil,
Let down in clouds of saffron, touch'd the ground,
The priests, and all the sacrificers round,
All felt the melting beams that came,
With softest pity wing'd, shot from her lovely

Clytemnestra now announces to the Chorus the capture of Troy. They, half-incredulous, demand of her what messenger had so quickly conveyed that it was Vulcan, it was the Fire-god:the intelligence, to which Clytemnestra replies

Twas Vulcan; peering through the night,

O'er Ida's groves he shone;

And watch to watch, and height to height,
The herald flame sent on;

From Ida to the Lemnian steep,
From Lemnos up to Jove's proud keep,
To Athos, swept the fiery shower,
Thence, chequering ocean with its rays,
All-sunbright burst the golden blaze
Nor slept; but, gathering swift relay,
On far Macistus' tower;
Shot, crackling, on its airy way—
'er wild Euripus' stream it flew;
Messapion's guards the signal knew,
Kindled their heathery piles on high,
And sped the glad news through the sky.
And on, still on, still undecay'd,
It bounded o'er Asopus' glade,
Shone, moonlike, on Citharon's height,
And rous'd up fresh relays of light,
And on again;-unspent, unsleeping,
On the herald meteor came;
Now o'er lake Gorgopis sweeping,
Now up Egiplancton leaping,

High it soar'd, a beard of flame,
High-in renew'd strength elate-
O'er the far Saronic strait.

To Arachne's answering pyre; Thence towards Argos-nigher-nigherO'er Agamemnon's roof down swoops the Idæan Fire.*

Chor. Hereafter to the gods, O queen! I'll pray.
But now, in wondering pleasure at thy words,
I fain would stand, and hear them o'er again.
Clyt. This very day the Greeks are lords of
Troy.

Now in the streets methinks I hear a peal
Of dreadful discord. Oil and vinegar
Into one vessel pour'd will ne'er unite,
But, like two foes at variance keep apart:
So they the conquer'd of the taken city,
And they the victors: you may hear apart
Two several voices, like their several fates.
These prostrate, rolling on the slaughter'd bodies
Of husbands, brothers; children by the sires
Who gave them being, their fond parents dead,
Wail with sad outcries, with enthralled necks;
But they the victors, wearied, famished,
With toils of battle, running up and down
Through the dun shades of night, at length like
wolves

Round the full boards and city feasts are set,
Carousing in confusion; all pell-mell
Throng in the costly Trojan palaces

Won by their swords; now rid of open camps
And dewy cover of night-freezing skies,
And stretch'd at ease, like careless poor men tired,
Sleep through the watches of th' unguarded night.
"Tis well-and so it will be-if they keep
Due reverence and homage to the gods
Of that forsaken city and their fanes,
They may chance 'scape such sad vicissitude,
Nor feel themselves what they inflict on others-
But let no impious lust, no thirst of gold,
Light on them longing for disastrous spoils,
Mad passion for those things 'tis sin to love!
Let them beware; they still want Heav'n's high
favour

To bring them back unhurt; they still have left
One whole side of the Stadium's length to run.
But should they come, their forfeits on their heads,
With Heav'n's high wrath benighted, then indeed
The curse of blood might follow at their heels,
And Troy's ensanguined sepulchres yield up
Their charnel'd dead to cry aloud for vengeance-
E'en should not fortune blow them other ills.
These are but woman's words; but O prevail
Our better destinies, nor let the balance
Hang in suspense; of many a proffer'd blessing,
I would have fix'd my heart, and chosen this.

*The practice of conveying intelligence by fire-signals is frequently mentioned by ancient writers, See Homer, II. xviii; Herodotus, Call. 3; Thucydides, ii. 94; Virg. Eneid, ii. 256; Polyb. x. 43, &c. There is a pretty story in Pausan. Corinth. of Lynceus, after the dreadful marriage night, which he alone of the fifty brothers survived, making fire-signals to Hypermnestra of his safe arrival at Lurceia, and of her answering him by like signals from Larissa. As to the possibility of transmitting a signal by fire from Mount Ida to Argos by means of the successive stations above enumerated, that part of the question seems to have been most satisfactorily computed and shown both by Vossius and Casaubon.

Ah! woe the halls, and woe the chiefs,
And woe the bridal bed!
And woe her steps,-for once she lov'd,
The lord, whose love she fled!
Lo! where, dishonour yet unknown,
He sits, nor deems his Helen flown,
Tearless and voiceless, on the spot,
All desert, but he feels it not!
But, soon alive to miss and mourn,
The form beyond the ocean borne,

Shall start the lonely king!
And thought shall fill the lost-one's room,
And darkly through the palace gloom
Shall stalk a ghostly thing.
Her statues meet, as round they rise,
The leaden stare of lifeless eyes;
Where is their ancient beauty gone?—
Why loathe his looks the breathing stone?

Alas! the foulness of disgrace
Hath swept the Venus from her face!
And visions in the mournful night
Shall dupe the heart to false delight,

A false and melancholy;

For what with sadder joy is fraught
Than things at night by dreaming brought,
The Wish'd-for and the Holy.

Swift from the solitary side,

The Vision and the Blessing glide,

Scarce welcom'd ere they sleep.

Pale, bloodless dreams aloft,

On wings unseen and soft,

And hurl him 'mid the hapless crew who groan, Helpless, unpitied, and unknown.

To be far-famed, and touch the skies,

Is on a giddy height to move;
The fire of Jove bursts in his eyes,

And the thunder rolls above.
Grant me wealth, but not that state
Where Envy waits upon the great;
Let me not be in high renown,
The sacker of another's town;
Nor let me see my country fall

By others' hands to slavery's thrall.

of sleep.

But through the bounds of Græcia's land
See Mourning on each threshold stand,
And weil may Greece with grief be rent;
She well remembers whom she sent,
She sees them not return:

Instead of men to each man's home,
Urns and ashes only come,

And the armour which they wore;
Sad relics to their native shore.

For Mars, the barterer of the lifeless clay,
Who sells for gold the slain,

And holds the scale, in battle's doubtful day,
High balanced o'er the plain;

From Ilium's walls for men returns
Ashes and sepulchral urns;
Ashes wet with many a tear,
Sad relics of the fiery bier.

Round the full urns the general groan
Goes, as each their kindred own.
One they mourn in battle strong,
And one that 'mid the armed throng
Sunk in glory's slaughtering tide,
And for another's consort died.
Such the sounds that, mix'd with wail,
In secret whispers round prevail;
And envy, join'd with silent griefs,
Spreads 'gainst the two Atridæ chiefs,
Who began the public fray,
And to vengeance led the way.

Others they mourn whose monuments stand
By Ilium's walls on foreign strand;

Where they fell in beauty's bloom,
There they lie in hated tomb;
Sunk beneath the massy mound,
In eternal chambers bound.

Whene'er a city moves its men to wrath,
Heavy their rumour; and a people's curse
Works out its ruler's woe.

My soul stands tiptoe with affright;
I stand like one with listening ear,
Ready to catch the sound of fear;
And lift my eyes to see some sight
Coming from the pall of night.

For Gods behold not unconcern'd from high,
When smoking slaughter mounts the sky,
The mighty murd'rers of the direful plain.
For then the black Erinnysses arise

Quick through the town the winged rumour flies:

If true, who knows?

It may be false, I fear!

For who so childish, and of senses shorn,
To let his soul be kindled all at once
With the first tidings of a moment's glare,
And then, when changeful tidings come,
To sink into despair?

It well beseems a female throne,
Before the event is clearly known,
To solemnize the joy:

The female mind too quickly moves,
Too apt to credit what it loves;
But short-lived is the fame
Which female heraldries proclaim.

CHORUS AND CLYTEMNESTRA.

Clyt. Soon shall we know if these light-bearing lamps,

These watches kept, these interchanging fires,
Are true; or if, like, some delicious dream,
This light has cozen'd us: my eyes descry
A herald from the beach approaching fast,
And mark his olive boughs-all looks well now:
God grant it may so end!

Enter HERALD.*

Her. Hail to! my native and paternal soil! Hail to! my country, and the sweet approach Of Argive land! in ten long years return'd, I stand upon thee gladly, O my country! And save this one of many a shipwreck'd hope. O much I fear'd I ne'er should see thy shores, Nor when I died, be gather'd to thy lap.

The unity of action is preserved in this play, but the unity of time would appear to be disregarded, for nothing but a miracle could have brought the herald home so soon, supposing the exhibition of the beacons to have taken place immediately on the taking of Troy. The fact is, the Greek poets did not observe the minor unities of time and place so scrupulously as the French. Sophocles presents in the Trachiniæ a more glaring example, in the mission of Hyllus and his return, (a distance of 120 Italian miles,) which takes place during the acting of a hundred lines. In the Eumenides Eschylus opens the play at Delphi, and ends it at Athens. Aristotle, as Twining properly remarks, does not lay down the unity of time as a rule, but says that tragedy endeavours to circumscribe the period of its action to one revolution of the sun.

The joy of the herald, and his salutation of his country's Gods, before he noticed his countrymen, was in the

And make the mighty justice-slighting man Pale in the midst of Glory's proud career;

didactic work, recommends the farmer on his return, 'Primum larem salutato.'

Now Earth, all hail! all hail, thou Sun of light!
And Jove, this realm's great paramount! and thou,
O King of Pytho, hurling from thy bow
Thy shafts no more against us; full enough
We felt thy ire by sad Scamander's banks:
Now be our saviour, and our lord of games,
O King Apollo! and I call ye all,

Ye Gods of festivals, and thee, my patron,
Sweet Herald God! whom heralds most adore;
And ye, the worshipp'd Heroes of old times,
Who sent your armed sons to battle forth;
Receive what now remains of us, the gleanings
Of hostile spears. O palace of our kings!
Dear roofs, and venerated judgment seats!
And ye, sun-facing images of Gods!
Now, now, if ever, beam with joyful eyes
Upon your king returning;-lo! he comes,
King Agamemnon, bringing now at last
A light in darkness, and a general shine
On you, on all the people, on all those

Chor. Hush! silence is a balm that cures mishap.

Her. Ha! were there any then that caused such fear

To make thee tremble when your king was absent?

Chor. You spoke our feelings when you welcomed death.

Her. From joy I spoke it; but thus length of

time

Brings with it much that falls out to our liking,
And much to cavil at. For who but God
Lives through all age without the stain of woe?
I could tell hardships and inclement watches;
Cribs and close-pent up hatches; beds on plank;
Our labours, rather call them suff'rings, were
Set by the hours of each revolving day.
But this was light to what we bore on land:
Tents by the hostile walls, and drizzling skies,
And marshy fens, and jerkins mildewed o'er,

well,

(Such honour is the mighty conqueror's meed) Who, arm'd with vengeance and the mace of Jove,

Unloosed the stony, massy girths of Troy.
Ay, now Jove's spade has finish'd its dread work,
And made a mound of all that mighty field;
Altars and fanes in unknown ruins lie,
And without seed lies all the blasted land.
Thus comes Atrides from the siege of Troy,
Which 'neath his yoke has bent her turrets high.
O happy, glorious, honourable man,
Deserving praise of men far, far beyond
What any worthy of this age can claim.
The vaunts of Troy and Paris are no more,
Boasting the arm of Justice could not reach them;
But it has spann'd them with a hand as large
As their offendings: the convicted thief*
Has lost his mainprize, and the ravisher
Has with his beauteous fair one lost himself,
And bared his father's house to the dire edge
Of naked ruin; and old Priam's sons

Have with their blood his double forfeits paid. Chor. Herald of the Argives from the host, all health

Or shall I tell our wint'rings, and the cold
We scarce could bear, engender'd by the snows
That hid mount Ida, when the rage of winter
Swept from the landskip e'en the birds of air?
Or how we broil'd in summer's sultry calms,
When, on his mid-day couch, the unruffled sea
Slept in the stillness of the noontide air,
Without a breeze or sigh of zephyr heard.
'Tis o'er; 'tis ended-why lament it now?
Now all the labours of the war are past,
Are past to us; ay, and past too to them,
Our comrades dead; to them all feeling's past,
Or thoughts of rising from their lowly beds.
Why talk of them, poor souls? why tell how many
Perish, alas! and overcloud the joy

Of those whose life is left? Down, down, sad thoughts!

'Tis time to part from grief, and welcome joy.
We that are left of that great Argive host
Can say our losses in the scale are light
Weigh'd 'gainst our gains: why we may take our

station,

Borne on the wings of Fame o'er sea and land,
And show our glories in the dazzling sun,
Proclaiming as we go-These are the spoils
The Greeks have taken from the towers of Troy,
And hung them in the temples of their Gods,
A blazonry for ages yet to come.'

Her.

Behold my eyes

Weep with delight, and answer thee in tears. Chor. Others shared with you in that sweet disease.

Her. How, pr'ythee? let me understand thee!

speak.

Chor. Some long'd for you, much as ye long'd for them.

Her. We were then both regretting and regretted?

Must needs our chiefs admire, our city laud, And honour will be paid to Jove, whose grace These deeds accomplish'd.

groans, Stifled in secret.

Her.

Whence this secret sorrow?

* Paris.

'Sure dost thou think Troy sack'd, by midnight fires

Too easily persuaded? Ah! fond woman,
Thou hear'st a buoyant and believing heart.'