Video Agamemnon Lines 100 150 de Aeschylus 2025 Lyrics Lyrics

Aeschylus - Agamemnon Lines 100 150 Lyrics

Argos blazes! Torches race the sunrise up her skies –
drugged by the lulling holy oils,
unadulterated,
run from the dark vaults of kings.
Tell us the news!
What you can, what is right –
Heal us, soothe our fears!
Now the darkness comes to the fore,
now the hope glows through your victims,
beating back this raw, relentless anguish
gnawing at the heart.
(clytaemnesta ignores them and pursues her rituals; they assemble for the opening chorus.)
O but I still have power to sound the god's command at the
Roads
that launched the kings. The gods breathe power through
my song,
my fighting strength, Persuasion grows with the years –
I sing how the flight of fury hurled the twin command,
one will that hurled young Greece
and winged the spear of vengeance straight for Troy!
The kings of birds to kings of the beaking prows, one black,
one with a blaze of silver
skimmed the palace spearhand right
and swooping lower, all could see,
plunged their claws in a hare, a mother
bursting with unborn young - the babies spilling,
quick spurts of blood - cut off the race just dashing into life!
Cry, cry for death, but good win out in glory in the end.
But the loyal seer of the armies studied Atreus' sons,
two sons with warring hearts - he saw two eagle-kings
devour the hare and spoke the things to come,
'Years pass, and the long hunt nets the city of Priam,
the flocks beyond the walls,
a kingdom's life and soul - Fate stamps them out.
Just let no curse of the gods lour on us first,
shatter our giant armour
forged to strangle Troy. I see
pure Artemis bristle in pity –
yes, the flying hounds of the Father
slaughter for armies... their own victim.. a woman
trembling young, all born to die - She loathes the eagles' feast!'
Cry, cry for death, but good win out in glory in the end.
'Artemis, lovely Artemis, so kind
to the ravening lion's tender, helpless cubs,
the suckling young of beasts that stalk the wilds –
bring this sign for all its fortune,
all its brutal torment home to birth!
I beg you, Healing Apollo, soothe her before
her crosswinds hold us down and moor the ships too long,
pressing us on to another victim ... nothing sacred, no
no feast to be eaten
the architect of vengeance.