| Aeschylus Index |
refrain 1
Hear the hymn of hell,
O'er the victim sounding,-
Chant of frenzy, chant of ill,
Sense and will confounding!
Round the soul entwining
Without lute or lyre-
Soul in madness pining,
Wasting as with fire!
antistrophe 1
Fate, all-pervading Fate, this service spun, commanding
That I should bide therein:
Whosoe'er of mortals, made perverse and lawless,
Is stained with blood of kin,
By his side are we, and hunt him ever onward,
Till to the Silent Land,
The realm of death, he cometh; neither yonder
In freedom shall he stand.
refrain 1
Hear the hymn of hell,
O'er the victim sounding,-
Chant of frenzy, chant of ill,
Sense and will confounding!
Round the soul entwining
Without lute or lyre-
Soul in madness pining,
Wasting as with fire!
strophe 2
When from womb of Night we sprang, on us this labour
Was laid and shall abide.
Gods immortal are ye, yet beware ye touch not
That which is our pride!
None may come beside us gathered round the blood-feast-
For us no garments white
Gleam on a festal day; for us a darker fate is,
Another darker rite.
refrain 2
That is mine hour when falls an ancient line
When in the household's heart
The God of blood doth slay by kindred hands,-
Then do we bear our part:
On him who slays we sweep with chasing cry:
Though he be triply strong,
We wear and waste him; blood atones for blood,
Yew pain for ancient wrong.
antistrophe 2
I hold this task-'tis mine, and not another's.
The very gods on high,
Though they can silence and annul the prayers
Of those who on us cry,
They may not strive with us who stand apart,
A race by Zeus abhorred,
Blood-boltered, held unworthy of the council
And converse of Heaven's lord.
strophe 3
Therefore the more I leap upon my prey;
Upon their head I bound;
My foot is hard; as one that trips a runner
I cast them to the ground;
Yea, to the depth of doom intolerable;
And they who erst were great,
And upon earth held high their pride and glory,
Are brought to low estate.
In underworld they waste and are diminished,
The while around them fleet
Dark wavings of my robes, and, subtly woven,
The paces of my feet.
antistrophe 3
Who falls infatuate, he sees not neither knows he
That we are at his side;
So closely round about him, darkly flitting,
The cloud of guilt doth glide.
Heavily 'tis uttered, how around his hearthstone
The mirk of hell doth rise.
strophe 4
Stern and fixed the law is; we have hands t' achieve it,
Cunning to devise.
Queens are we and mindful of our solemn vengeance.
Not by tear or prayer
Shall a man avert it. In unhonoured darkness,
Far from gods, we fare,
Lit unto our task with torch of sunless regions,
And o'er a deadly way-
Deadly to the living as to those who see not
Life and light of day-
Hunt we and press onward.
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