The Libation Bearers E-Book

Aeschylus

• Herausgeber: Sovereign
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Plays by Aeschylus
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 50

Beschreibung

Orestes arrives at the grave of his father, accompanied by his cousin Pylades, the son of the king of Phocis, where he has grown up in exile; he places two locks of his hair on the tomb. Orestes and Pylades hide as Electra, Orestes' sister, arrives at the grave accompanied by a chorus of elderly slave women (the libation bearers of the title) to pour libations on Agamemnon's grave; they have been sent by Clytemnestra in an effort to ward off harm. Just as the ritual ends, Electra spots a lock of hair on the tomb which she recognizes as similar to her own; subsequently she sees two sets of footprints, one of which has proportions similar to hers. At this point Orestes and Pylades emerge from their hiding place and Orestes gradually convinces her of his identity.

Leseprobe

Aeschylus

Aeschylus

The Libation Bearers

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

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TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

New Edition

Published by Sovereign Classic

www.sovereignclassic.net

This Edition

First published in 2016

Copyright © 2016 Sovereign Classic

ISBN: 9781911535690

Contents

THE LIBATION BEARERS

THE LIBATION BEARERS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Orestes, son of Agamenon and Clytemnestra

Chorus of Slave Women

Electra, sister of Orestes

A Nurse

Clytemnestra

Aegisthus

An Attendant

SCENE

By the tomb of Agamemnon near the palace in Argos. Orestes and Pylades enter, dressed as travellers. Orestes carries two locks of hair in his hand.

Orestes:Lord of the shades and patron of the realmThat erst my father swayed, list now my prayer,Hermes, and save me with thine aiding arm,Me who from banishment returning standOn this my country; lo, my foot is setOn this grave-mound, and herald-like, as thou,Once and again, I bid my father hear.And these twin locks, from mine head shorn, I bring,And one to Inachus the river-god,My young life’s nurturer, I dedicate,And one in sign of mourning unfulfilledI lay, though late, on this my father’s grave.For O my father, not beside thy corseStood I to wail thy death, nor was my handStretched out to bear thee forth to burial.What sight is yonder? what this woman-throngHitherward coming, by their sable garbMade manifest as mourners? What hath chanced?Doth some new sorrow hap within the home?Or rightly may I deem that they draw nearBearing libations, such as soothe the ireOf dead men angered, to my father’s grave?Nay, such they are indeed; for I descryElectra mine own sister pacing hither,In moody grief conspicuous. Grant, O Zeus,Grant me my father’s murder to avenge-Be thou my willing champion!Pylades,Pass we aside, till rightly I discernWherefore these women throng in suppliance.Pylades and Orestes withdraw; the chorus enters bearing vessels for libation; Electra follows them; they pace slowly towards the tomb of Agamemnon.Chorus of Slave Women:strophe 1, singingForth from the royal halls by high commandI bear libations for the dead.Rings on my smitten breast my smiting hand,And all my cheek is rent and red,Fresh-furrowed by my nails, and all my soulThis many a day doth feed on cries of dole.And trailing tatters of my vest,In looped and windowed raggedness forlorn,Hang rent around my breast,Even as I, by blows of Fate most sternSaddened and torn.antistrophe 1Oracular thro’ visions, ghastly clear,Bearing a blast of wrath from realms below,And stiffening each rising hair with dread,Came out of dream-land Fear,And, loud and awful, badeThe shriek ring out at midnight’s witching hour,And brooded, stern with woe,Above the inner house, the woman’s bowerAnd seers inspired did read the dream on oath,Chanting aloud In realms belowThe dead are wroth;Against their slayers yet their ire doth glow.strophe 2Therefore to bear this gift of graceless worth-O Earth, my nursing mother!-The woman god-accurs’d doth send me forthLest one crime bring another.Ill is the very word to speak, for noneCan ransom or atoneFor blood once shed and darkening the plain.O hearth of woe and bane,O state that low doth lie!Sunless, accursed of men, the shadows broodAbove the home of murdered majesty.antistrophe 2Rumour of might, unquestioned, unsubdued,Pervading ears and soul of lesser men,Is silent now and dead.Yet rules a viler dread;For bliss and power, however won,As gods, and more than gods, dazzle our mortal ken.Justice doth mark, with scales that swiftly sway,Some that are yet in light;Others in interspace of day and night,Till Fate arouse them, stay;And some are lapped in night, where all things are undonestrophe 3On the life-giving lap of EarthBlood hath flowed forth;And now, the seed of vengeance, clots the plain-Unmelting, uneffaced the stain.And Ate tarries long, but at the lastThe sinner’s heart is castInto pervading, waxing pangs of pain.antistrophe 3Lo, when man’s force doth opeThe virgin doors, there is nor cure nor hopeFor what is lost,-even so, I deem,Though in one channel ran Earth’s every stream,Laving the hand defiled from murder’s stain,It were in vain.epodeAnd upon me-ah me!-the gods have laidThe woe that wrapped round Troy,What time they led me down from home and kinUnto a slave’s employ-The doom to bow the headAnd watch our master’s willWork deeds of good and ill-To see the headlong sway of force and sin,And hold restrained the spirit’s bitter hate,Wailing the monarch’s fruitless fate,Hiding my face within my robe, and fainOf tears, and chilled with frost of hidden pain.Electra:Handmaidens, orderers of the palace-halls,Since at my side ye come, a suppliant train,Companions of this offering, counsel meAs best befits the time: for I, who pourUpon the grave these streams funereal,With what fair word can I invoke my sire?Shall I aver, Behold, I bear these giftsFrom well-loved wife unto her well-loved lord,When ‘tis from her, my mother, that they come?I dare not say it: of all words I failWherewith to consecrate unto my sireThese sacrificial honours on his grave.Or shall I speak this word, as mortals use-Give back, to those who send these coronals,Full recompense-of ills for acts malign?Or shall I pour this draught for Earth to drink,Sans word or reverence, as my sire was slain,And homeward pass with unreverted eyes,Casting the bowl away, as one who flingsThe household cleansings to the common road?Be art and part, O friends, in this my doubt,Even as ye are in that one common hateWhereby we live attended: fear ye not