. The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman. OF AGAMEMNON. 361 SEMI-CHORUS. Who shall bear witness now, —Who of this murder, now, thee guiltless hold ?How sayest thou ? How ?Yet the fell Alastor may have holpen, I trow:Still is dark Ares drivenDown currents manifoldOf kindred blood, wherever judgment is given,And he comes to avenge the children slain of old,And their thick gore cries to Heaven ! CHORUS. Woe ! Woe !King ! O how shall I weep for thy dying ? What shall my fond heart say anew ?Thou in the web of the spider art lying, Breathing out life by a death she shall rue ! SEMI-CHORUS. A
. The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman. OF AGAMEMNON. 361 SEMI-CHORUS. Who shall bear witness now, —Who of this murder, now, thee guiltless hold ?How sayest thou ? How ?Yet the fell Alastor may have holpen, I trow:Still is dark Ares drivenDown currents manifoldOf kindred blood, wherever judgment is given,And he comes to avenge the children slain of old,And their thick gore cries to Heaven ! CHORUS. Woe ! Woe !King ! O how shall I weep for thy dying ? What shall my fond heart say anew ?Thou in the web of the spider art lying, Breathing out life by a death she shall rue ! SEMI-CHORUS. Alas ! alas for this slavish couch ! By a sword Two-edged, by a hand untrue,Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord! KLYTAIMNESTRA. Hath he not subtle Ate brought Himself, to his kingly halls ?T was on our own dear offspring, — yea,On Iphigeneia, wept for still, he wroughtThe doom that cried for the doom by which he , let him not in Hades boast, I say,For tis the sword that calls,Even for that foul deed, his soul away!16 LATER POEMS. LATER POEMS THE SONGSTER A MIDSUMMER CAROL. I. WITHIN our summer hermitageI have an aviary, —T is but a little, rustic cage,That holds a golden-winged Canary, —A bird with no companion of his when the warm south-windBlows, from rathe meadows, overThe honey-scented clover,I hang him in the porch, that he may hearThe voices of the bobolink and thrush, The robins joyous gush,The bluebirds warble, and the tunes of allGlad matin songsters in the fields anear. Then, as the blithe responses vary, 366 LATER POEMS. And rise anew, and fall, In every hushHe answers them again,With his own wild, reliant strain,As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary. , bird of the golden wing,Thou lithe, melodious thing ! Where hast thy music found ?What fantasies of vale and vine,Of glades where orchids intertwine,Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned,And forests flooded deep with sound,—What high imaginingHath made this carol thine ?By what
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