CHOEPHORÆ
Enter Orestes and Pylades.
Orestes.
Hermes, that wieldest underneath the ground
What power thy father lent,[n1] be thou my saviour
And my strong help, and grant his heart’s request
To the returning exile! On this mound,
My father’s tomb, my father I invoke,
To hear my cry!
* * * * * *
* * My early growth of hair
To Inachus I vowed;[n2] this later lock
The right of grief for my great sire demands.
* * * * * *
But what is this? what sad procession comes
Of marshalled maids in sable mantles clad?
What mission brings them? Some new woe that breaks
Upon our fated house? Or, do they come
To soothe the ancient anger of the dead
With sweet libations for my father’s tomb?
’Tis even so: for lo! Electra comes—
My sister—with them in unblissful grief
Pre-eminent. O Jove, be thou mine aid,[n3]
And nerve my hand to avenge my father’s wrong!
Stand we aside, my Pylades, that we
May learn the purpose of the murky pomp. [They go aside.
Chorus.
(dressed in sable vestments, bearing vessels with libations.)
STROPHE I.
Missioned from these halls I come
In the sable pomp of woe,
Here to wail and pour libations,
With the bosom-beating blow;
And my cheeks, that herald sorrow,[n4]
With the fresh-cut nail-ploughed furrow,
Grief’s vocation show.
See! my rent and ragged stole
Speaks the conflict of my soul;
My vex’d heart on grief is feeding,
Night and day withouten rest;
Riven with the ruthless mourning,
Hangs the linen vest, adorning
Woefully my breast.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Breathing wrath through nightly slumbers,
By a dream-encompassed lair,
Prophet of the house of Pelops,
Terror stands with bristling hair.
Through the dark night fitful yelling,
He within our inmost dwelling
Did the sleeper scare.
Heavily, heavily terror falls
On the woman-governed halls!
And, instinct with high assurance,
Speak the wise diviners all;
“The dead, the earth-hid dead are fretful,
And for vengeance unforgetful,
From their graves they call.”
STROPHE II.
This graceless grace to do, to ward
What ills the dream portendeth
This pomp—O mother Earth!—and me
The godless woman sendeth.
Thankless office! Can I dare,
Naming thee, to mock the air?
Blood that stains with purple track
The ground, what price can purchase back?
O the hearth beset with mourning!
O the proud halls’ overturning!
Darkness, blithe sight’s detestation,
Sunless sorrow spread
Round the house of desolation,
Whence the lord is fled.
ANTISTROPHE II.
The kingly majesty that was
The mighty, warlike-hearted,
That swayed the general ear and will,
The unconquered, hath departed.
And now fear rules,[n5] and we obey,
Unwillingly, a loveless sway.
Who holds the key of plenty’s portals
Is god, and more than god to mortals;
But justice from her watchful station,
With a sure-winged visitation
Swoops; and some in blazing noon
She for doom doth mark,
Some in lingering eve, and some
In the deedless dark.
EPODE.
When mother Earth hath drunk black gore,
Printed on the faithful floor,
The staring blot remaineth;
There the deep disease is lurking;
There thrice double-guilt is working
Woes that none restraineth.
As virgin-chambers once polluted
Never may be pure again,
So filthy hands with blood bedabbled[n6]
All the streams of all the rivers
Flow to wash in vain.
For me I suffer what I must;
By ordinance divine,
Since Troy was levelled with the dust
The bondman’s fate is mine.
What the masters of my fate
In their strength decree,[n7]
Just or unjust, matters not,
Is the law to me.
I must look content; and chain
Strongest hate with tightest rein;
I for my mistress’ woes must wail,
And for my own, beneath the veil;[n8]
I must sit apart,
And thaw with tears my frozen heart,
When no eye may see.
Enter Electra.
Electra.
Ye ministering maids with dexterous heed
That tend this household, as with me ye share
This pomp of supplication, let me share
In your good counsel. Speak, and tell me how,
This flood funereal pouring on the tomb,
I shall find utterance in well-omened words?
Shall I declare me bearer of sweet gifts
From a dear wife to her dear lord? I fear
To mingle faslehood with libations pure,
Poured on my father’s tomb.[n9] Or shall I pray,
As mortals wont to pray, that he may send
Just retribution, and a worthy gift
Of ill for ill to them that sent these garlands?
Or shall I silent stand, nor with my tongue
Give honour, as in dumb dishonoured death
My father died, and give the Earth to drink
A joyless stream, as who throws lustral ashes[n10]
With eyes averse, and flings the vase away?
Your counsel here I crave; ye are my friends,
And bear with me, within these fated halls
A common burden. Speak, and no craven fear
Lurk in your breasts! The man that lives most free,
And him to sternest masterdom enthralled,
One fate abides. Lend me your wisdom, friends.
Chorus.
Thy father’s tomb shall be to me an altar;
As before God I’ll speak the truth to thee.
Electra.
Speak thus devoutly, and thou’lt answer well.
Chorus.
Give words of seemly honour, as thou pourest,
To all that love thy father.
Electra.
Who are they?
Chorus.
Thyself the first, and whoso hates Ægisthus.
Electra.
That is myself and thou.
Chorus.
Thyself may’st judge.
Electra.
Hast thou none else to swell the scanty roll?
Chorus.
One far away, thy brother, add—Orestes.
Electra.
’Tis well remembered, very well remembered.
Chorus.
Nor them forget that worked the deed of guilt.
Electra.
Ha! what of them? I’d hear of this more nearly.
Chorus.
Pray that some god may come, or mortal man.
Electra.
Judge or avenger?
Chorus.
Roundly pray the prayer,
Some god or man may come to slay the slayer.
Electra.
And may I pray the gods such boon as this?
Chorus.
Why not? What other quittance to a foe
Than hate repaid with hate, and blow with blow?[n11]
Electra.
(approaching to the tomb of Agamemnon)
Hermes, that swayest underneath the ground,[f4] [n12]
Of powers divine, Infernal and Supernal,
Most weighty herald, herald me in this,
That every subterranean god, and earth,
Even mother earth, who gave all things their birth,
And nurseth the reviving germs of all,
May hear my prayer, and with their sleepless eyes
Watch my parental halls. And while I dew
Thy tomb with purifying stream, O father,
Pity thou me, and on thy loved Orestes
With pity look, and to our long lost home
Restore us!—us, poor friendless outcasts both,
Bartered by her who bore us, and exchanged
Thy love for his who was thy murderer.
Myself do menial service in this house;
Orestes lives in exile; and they twain
In riot waste the fruits of thy great toils.
Hear thou my prayers, and quickly send Orestes
With happy chance to claim his father’s sceptre!
And give thou me a wiser heart, and hand
More holy-functioned than the mother’s was
That bore thy daughter. Thus much for myself,
And for my friends. To those that hate my father,
Rise thou with vengeance mantled-dark to smite
Those justly that unjustly smote the just.
These words of evil imprecation dire,[n13]
Marring the pious tenor of my prayer,
I speak constrained: but thou for me and mine
Send good, and only good, to the upper air,
The gods being with thee, mother Earth, and Justice
With triumph in her train. This prayer receive
And these libations. Ye, my friends, the while
Let your grief blossom in luxuriant wail,
Lifting the solemn pæan of the dead.
Chorus.[n14]
Flow! in plashing torrents flow!
Wretched grief for wretched master!
O’er this heaped mound freely flow,
Refuge of my heart’s disaster!
O thou dark majestic shade,
Hear, O hear me! While anear thee
Pours this sorrow-stricken maid
The pure libation,
May the solemn wail we lift
Atone the guilt that taints the gift
With desecration!
O that some god from Scythia far,
To my imploring,
Might send a spearman strong in war,
Our house restoring!
Come Mars, with back-bent bow, thy hail
Of arrows pouring,
Or with the hilted sword assail,
And in the grapple close prevail,
Of battle roaring!
Electra.[n15]
These mild libations, earth-imbibed, my father
Hath now received. Thy further counsel lend.
Chorus.
In what? Within me leaps my heart for fear.
Electra.
Seest thou this lock of hair upon the tomb?
Chorus.
A man’s hair is it, or a low-zoned maid’s?[n16]
Electra.
Few points there are to hit. ’Tis light divining.
Chorus.
I am thine elder; yet I fain would reap
Instruction from young lips.
Electra.
If it was dipt
From head in Argos, it should be my own.[n17]
Chorus.
For they that should have shorn the mourning lock
Are foes, not friends.
Electra.
’Tis like, O strange! how like!
Chorus.
Like what? What strange conception stirs thy brain?
Electra.
’Tis like—O strange!—to these same locks I wear.
And yet—
Chorus.
Not being yours, there’s none, I know,
Can claim it but Orestes.
Electra.
In sooth, ’tis like.
Trimmed with one plume Orestes was and I.
Chorus.
But how should he have dared to tread this ground?
Electra.
Belike, he sent it by another’s hand,
A votive lock to grace his father’s tomb.
Chorus.
Small solace to my grief, if that he lives,
Yet never more may touch his native soil.
Electra.
I, too, as with a bitter wave was lashed,
And pierced, as with an arrow, at the sight
Of this loved lock; and from my thirsty eyne
With troubled overflowings unrestrained
The full tide gushes: for none here would dare
To gift a lock to Agamemnon’s grave;
No citizen, much less the wife that slew him.
My mother most unmotherly, her own children
With godless hate pursuing, evil-minded:
And though to think this wandering lock have graced
My brother’s head—even his—my loved Orestes,
Were bliss too great, yet will I hold the hope.
O that this lock might with articulate voice
Pronounce a herald’s tale, and I no more
This way and that with dubious thought be swayed!
That I might know if from a hostile head
’Twas shorn, and hate it as it hate deserves,
Or, if from friends, my sorrows’ fellow make it,
The dearest grace of my dear father’s tomb!
But the gods know our woes; them we invoke,
Whirled to and fro in eddies of dark doubt,
Like vessels tempest-tossed. If they will save us,
They have the power from smallest seed to raise
The goodliest tree. But lo! a further proof[n18]—
Footsteps, a perfect print, that seem to bear
A brotherhood with mine! Nay, there are two—
This claimed by him, and that by some true friend
That shares his wanderings. See, the heel, the sole,
Thus measured with my own, prove that they were
Both fashioned in one mould. ’Tis very strange!
I’m racked with doubt, my wits are wandering.
Orestes.
(coming forward)
Nay, rather thank the gods! Thy first prayer granted,
Pray that fair end may fair beginning follow.[n19]
Electra.
Sayest thou? What cause have I to thank the gods?
Orestes.
Even here before thee stands thine answered prayer.
Electra.
One man I wish to see: dost know him—thou?
Orestes.
Thy wish of wishes is to see Orestes.
Electra.
Even so: but wishing answers no man’s prayer.
Orestes.
I am the man. No dearer one expect
That wears that name.
Electra.
Nay, but this is some plot?
Orestes.
That were to frame a plot against myself.
Electra.
Unkind, to scoff at my calamities!
Orestes.
To scoff at thine, were scoffing at mine own.
Electra.
And can it be? Art thou indeed Orestes?
Orestes.
My bodily self thou seest, and dost not know!
And yet the votive lock shorn from my head,
Being to thine, my sister’s hair, conform,
And my foot’s print with curious ardour scanned,
Could wing thy faith beyond the reach of sense,
That thou didst seem to see me! Take the lock,
And match it nicely with this mother crop
That bore it. More; behold this web,[n20] the fruit
Of thine own toil, the strokes of thine own shuttle,
The wild beasts of the woods by thine own hand
Empictured! Nay, be calm, and keep thy joy
Within wise bounds. Too well I know that they
Who should be friends here are our bitterest foes.
Electra.
O of my father’s house the chiefest care!
Seed of salvation, hope with many, tears
Bewept, with thy strong arm thou shalt restore
Thy father’s house. O my life’s eye, thou dost
Four several functions corporate in one
Discharge for me! My father thou, and thine
The gentler love that should have been my mother’s,
My justly hated mother; and in her place,
Who died by merciless immolation,[f5] thou
Must be my sister, so even as thou art
My faithful brother, loved much and revered.
May Power and Justice aid thee, mighty Twain,[n21]
And a third mightier, Jove supremely great.
Orestes.
O Jove, great Jove, of all these things be thou
Spectator! And behold the orphan’d brood,
Of eagle father strangled in the folds
And deadly coil of loathly basilisk!
Them sireless see in dire starvation’s gripe,
Too weak of wing to bear unto the nest
Their father’s prey. So we before thee stand,
Myself and this Electra, sire-bereaved,
And exiles both from our paternal roof.
If we, the chickens of the pious father
That crowned thee with much sacrifice, shall fail,
Where shalt thou find a hand like his, to offer
Gifts from the steaming banquet? If the brood
Of the eagle perish, where shall be thy signs,
That speak from Heaven persuasive to mankind?
If all this royal trunk shall rot, say who,
When blood of oxen flows on holidays,
Shall stand beside thine altar? O give ear,
And of this house so little now, and fallen
So low, rebuild the fortunes!
Chorus.
Hush, my children!
If ye would save your father’s house, speak softly,
Lest some one hear, and, with swift babblement,
Inform their ears who rule; whom may I see
Flayed on a fire, with streaming pitch well fed!
Orestes.
Fear not. The mighty oracle of Loxias,
By whose commands I dare the thing I dare,
Will not deceive me. He, with shrill-voiced warning,
Foretold that freezing pains through my warm liver
Should torturing shoot, if backward to avenge
My father’s death, and even as he was slain,
To slay the slayers, exasperate at the loss[n22]
Of my so fair possessions. Thus to do
He gave me strict injunction: else myself
With terrible pains, of filial zeal remiss,
Should pay the fine. The evil-minded Powers
Beneath the Earth[n23] would visit me in wrath,
A leprous tetter with corrosive tooth
Creep o’er my skin, and fasten on my flesh,
And with white scales the white hair grow, defacing
My bloom of health; and from my father’s tomb
Ripe with avenging ire the Erinnyes
Should ruthlessly invade me. Thus he spake,
And through the dark his prescient eyebrow arched.[n24]
Sharp arrows through the subterranean night,
Shot by dear Shades that through the Infernal halls
Roam peaceless, madness, and vain fear o’ nights,
Prick with sharp goads, and chase from street to street,
With iron scourge, the meagre-wasted form
Of the Fury-hunted sinner; him no share
In festal cup awaits, or hallowed drop
Of pure libation;[n25] the paternal wrath,
Hovering unseen, shall drive him from the altar;
Him shall no home receive, no lodgment hold,
Unhonoured and unfriended he shall die,
Withered and mummied with the hot dry plague.
Such oracle divine behoves me trust
With single faith, or, be I faithless, still
The vengeance must be done. All things concur
To point my purpose; the divine command
My sore heart-grief for a loved father’s death,
The press of want, the spoiling of my goods,
The shame to see these noble citizens,
Proud Troy’s destroyers, basely bent beneath
The yoke of two weak women: for he hath
A woman’s soul: if not, the proof is near.
Chorus.
Mighty Fates, divinely guiding
Human fortunes to their end,
Send this man, with Jove presiding,
Whither Justice points the way.
Words of bitter hatred duly
Pay with bitter words: for thus
With loud cry triumphant shouting
Justice pays the sinner’s debt.
Blood for blood and blow for blow,
Thou shalt reap as thou didst sow;
Age to age with hoary wisdom
Speaketh thus to men.[n26]
STROPHE I.
Orestes.
O father, wretched father, with what air
Of word or deed impelling,
Shall I be strong to waft the filial prayer
To thy dim distant dwelling?
There where in dark, the dead-man’s day, thou liest,[n27]
Be our sharp wailing
(Grace of the dead, and Hades’ honour highest),
With thee prevailing!
STROPHE II.
Chorus.
Son, the strong-jawed funeral fire
Burns not the mind in the smoky pyre;
Sleeps, but not forgets the dead
To show betimes his anger dread.
For the dead the living moan,
That the murderer may be known.
They who mourn for parent slain
Shall not pour the wail in vain,
Bright disclosure shall not lack
Who through darkness hunts the track.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Electra.
Hear thou our cries, O father, when for thee
The frequent tear is falling;
The wailing pair o’er thy dear tomb to thee
From their hearts’ depths are calling;
The suppliant and the exile at one tomb
Their sorrow showering,
Helpless and hopeless; mantled round with gloom,
Woe overpouring!
Chorus.
Nay, be calm; the god that speaks
With voice oracular shall attune
Thy throat to happier notes;
Instead the voice of wail funereal,
Soon the jubilant shout shall shake
His father’s halls with joy, and welcome
The new friend to his home.
STROPHE III.
Orestes.
If but some Lycian spear, ’neath Ilium’s walls,
Had lowly laid thee,
A mighty name in the Atridan halls
Thou wouldst have made thee!
Then hadst thou pitched thy fortune like a star,
To son and grandson shining from afar;
Beyond the wide-waved sea, the high-heaped mound
Had told for ever
Thy feats of battle, and with glory crowned
Thy high endeavour.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Chorus.
Ah! would that thou hadst found thy end
There, where dear friend fell with friend,
And marched with them to Hades dread,
The monarch of the awful dead,[n28]
Sitting beside the throne with might
Of them that rule the realms of night;
For thou in life wert monarch true,
Expert each kingly deed to do,
Leading, with thy persuasive rod,
Submissive mortals like a god.
ANTISTROPHE III.
Electra.
Thou wert a king, no fate it was for thee
To die as others
’Neath Ilium’s walls, far, far beyond the sea,
With many brothers.
Unworthy was the spear to drink thy blood,
Where far Scamander rolls his swirling flood.
Justly who slew had drawn themselves thy lot,
And perished rather,
And thou their timeless fate had welcomed, not
They thine, my father.
Chorus.
Child, thy grief begetteth visions
Brighter than gold, and overtopping
Hyperborean bliss.[n29]
Ah, here the misery rudely riots,
With double lash. These twins, their help
Sleeps beneath the ground; and they
Who hold dominion here, alas!
With unholy sceptre sway.
Woe is me! but chiefly woe
Children dear to you!
STROPHE IV.
Electra.
Chiefly to me! Thy words shoot like an arrow,
And pierce my marrow.
O Jove, O Jove! that sendest from below[n30]
The retribution slow,
Against the stout heart and bold hand,
That dared defy thy high command.
Even though a parent feel the woe,
Prepare, prepare the finished blow.
STROPHE V.
Chorus.
Mine be soon to lift the strain,
O’er the treacherous slayer slain,
To shout with bitter exultation,
O’er the murtherous wife’s prostration!
Why should I the hate conceal,
That spurs my heart with promptest zeal,
Bitter thoughts, that gathering grow,
Like blustering winds, that beat the plunging vessel’s prow?
ANTISTROPHE IV.
Orestes.
O thou that flourishest, and mak’st to flourish,
By thy hands perish
All they that hate me! Cleave the heads of those,
That are Orestes’ foes!
Pledge the land in peace to live,
For injustice justice give;
Ye that honoured reign below,[n31]
Furies! prepare the crowning blow.
Chorus.
Wont hath been, and shall be ever,
That when purple gouts bedash
The guilty ground, then blood doth blood
Demand, and blood for blood shall flow.
Fury to Havoc cries; and Havoc,
The tainted track of blood pursuing,
From age to age works woe.
STROPHE VI.
Electra.
Ye powers of Hades dread!
Fell Curses of the Dead,
Hear, me when I call!
Behold! The Atridan hall,
Dashed in dishonoured fall,
Lies low and graceless all.
O mighty Jove, I see
Mine only help in thee!
ANTISTROPHE V.
Chorus.
Thy piteous tale doth make my heart
From its central hold back start;
Hope departs, and blackening Fear
Rules my fancy, while I hear.
And if blithe confidence awhile[n32]
Lends my dull faith the feeble smile,
Soon, soon departs that glimpse of cheer,
And all my map of things is desolate and drear.
ANTISTROPHE VI.
Orestes.
For why! our tale of wrong
In hate of parents strong,
Spurneth the flatterer’s arm,
Mocketh the soothing charm.
The mother gave her child[n33]
This wolfish nature wild;
And I from her shall learn
To be thus harsh and stern.
STROPHE VII.
Chorus.
Like a Persian mourner[n34]
Singing sorrow’s tale,
Like a Cissian wailer,
I did weep and wail.
O’er my head swift-oaring
Came arm on arm amain,
The voice of my deploring
Like the lashing rain!
Sorrow’s rushing river
O’er me flooding spread,
Black misfortune’s quiver
Emptied on my head!
Electra.
Mother bold, all-daring,
On a bloody bier
Thine own lord forth bearing
Slain without a tear.
Alone, unfriended he did go
Down to the sunless homes below.
STROPHE VIII.
Orestes.
Thou hast named the dire dishonor;
The gods shall send swift judgment on her.
By Heaven’s command,
By her own son’s hand,
Slain she shall lie;
And I, having dealt the fated death,
Myself shall die!
ANTISTROPHE VII.
Electra.
Be the butcher’s work remembered,
Mangled was he, and dismembered;
Like vilest clay,
She cast him away,
With burial base;
Mocking the son, the father branding
With dark disgrace.
ANTISTROPHE VIII.
Orestes.
Thou dost tell too truly
All my father’s woe.
Electra.
I, the while, accounted
Lower than most low,
Like a dog, was sundered
From my father’s hearth,
An evil dog, and wandered
Far from seats of mirth;
In my chamber weeping
Tears of silent woe,
From rude gazers keeping
Grief too great for show.
Hear these words; and hearing
Nail them in thy soul,
With steady purpose nearing,
And noiseless pace, thy goal.
Go where just wrath leads the way,
With stout heart tread the lists to-day.
STROPHE IX.
Orestes.
O father, help thy friends, when helping thee!
Electra.
My tears, if they can help, shall flow for thee.
Chorus.
And this whole mingled choir shall raise for thee
The sistered cry: O hear!
In light of day appear,
And help thy banded friends, to avenge thy foes for thee!
ANTISTROPHE IX.
Orestes.
Now might with might engage, and right with right!
Electra.
And the gods justly the unjust shall smite.
Chorus.[n36]
The tremulous fear creeps o’er my frame to hear
Thy words; for, though long-dated,
The thing divinely fated
Shall surely come at last, our cloudy prayers to clear.
STROPHE X.
Electra.
O home-bred pain,
Stroke of perdition that refuses
Concord with the holy Muses!
O burden more than heart can bear,
Disease that no physician’s care
Makes sound again!
ANTISTROPHE X.
Orestes.
So; even so.
No far-sent leech this tetter uses;
A home-bred surgery it chooses.
I the red strife myself pursue,
Pouring this dismal hymn to you,
Ye gods below!
Chorus.
Blessed powers, propitious dwelling,
Deep in subterranean darkness,
Hear this pious prayer;
May all trials end in triumph
To the suppliant pair!
Orestes.
Father, who died not as a king should die,
Give me to rule, as thou didst rule, these halls.
Electra.
My supplication hear, thy strong help lend me,
Scathless myself[n37] to work Ægisthus’ harm.
Orestes.
Thus of the rightful feasts that soothe the Shades
Thou too shalt taste,[n38] and not dishonoured lie,
When savoury fumes mount to our country’s dead.
Electra.
And I my whole of heritage will offer,
The blithe libations of my marriage feast.
Thy tomb before all tombs I will revere.
Orestes.
O Earth, relax thy hold, and give my father
To see the fight!
Electra.
O Persephassa,[f6] send
The Atridan forth, in beauty clad and strength.
Orestes.
The bath that drank thy life remember, father.
Electra.
The close-drawn meshes of thy death remember.
Orestes.
The chain, not iron-linked, that bound thee, then
When to the death the kingly game was hunted.
Electra.
Then when with treacherous folds they curtained thee.
Orestes.
Wake, father, wake to avenge thy speechless wrongs!
Electra.
Lift, father, lift thy dear-loved head sublime!
Orestes.
Send justice forth to work the just revenge,
Like quit with like, and harm with harm repay;
Thou wert the conquered then, rise now to conquer.
Electra.
And hear this last request, my father, looking
On thy twin chickens nestling by thy tomb;
Pity the daughter, the male seed protect,
Nor let the name revered of ancient Pelops
Be blotted from the Earth! Thou art not dead,
Though housed in Hades, while thy children live,
For children are as echoes that prolong
Their parents’ fame; the floating cork are they
That buoyant bear the net deep sunk in the sea.
Hear, father—when we weep, we weep for thee,
And, saving us, thou savest thine own honour.
Chorus.
Well spoken both:[n39] and worthily fall the tears
On this dear tomb, too long without them. Now,
If to the deed thy purpose thou hast buckled,
Orestes, try what speed the gods may give thee.[n40]
Orestes.
I’ll do the deed. Meanwhile not idly this
I ask of thee—what moved her soul to send
These late libations, limping remedy
For wounds that cannot heal? A sorry grace
To feed the senseless dead with sacrifice,
When we have killed the living. What she means
I scarce may guess, but the amend is less
Than the offence. All ocean poured in offering
For the warm life-drops of one innocent man
Is labour lost. Old truth thus speaks to all.
How was it?
Chorus.
That I well may tell, for I
Was with her. Hideous dreams did haunt her sleep;
Night-wandering terrors scared her godless breast,
That she did send these gifts to soothe the Shades.
Orestes.
What saw she in her dream?
Chorus.
She dreamt, she said,
She had brought forth a serpent.
Orestes.
A serpent, say’st thou?
Chorus.
Ay! and the dragon birth portentous moved,
All swaddled like a boy.
Orestes.
Eager for food, doubtless, the new-born monster?
Chorus.
The nurturing nipple herself did fearless bare.
Orestes.
How then? escaped the nipple from the bite?
Chorus.
The gouted blood did taint the milk, that flowed
From the wounded paps.
Orestes.
No idle dream was this.
And he who sent it was my father.
Chorus.
Then
She from her sleep up started, and cried out,
And many lamps, whose splendour night had blinded,
Rushed forth, to wait upon their mistress’ word.
Straightway she sends us with funereal gifts,
A medicinal charm, if medicine be
For griefs like hers!
Orestes.
Now hear me, Earth profound,
And my dear father’s tomb, that so this dream
May find in me completion! Thus I read it—
As left the snake the womb that once hid me,
And in the clothes was swathed that once swathed me,
And as it sucked the breast that suckled me,
And mingled blood with milk once sucked by me,
And as she groaned with horror at the sight,
Thus it beseems who bore a monstrous birth
No common death to die. I am the serpent
Shall bite her breast. It is a truthful dream.
My seer be thou. Say have I read it well?
Chorus.
Bravely. Now, for the rest, thy friends instruct
What things to do, and what things to refrain.
Orestes.
’Tis said in few. Electra, go within,
And keep my counsels in wise secrecy;
For, as they killed an honourable man
Deceitfully, by cunning and deceit
Themselves shall find the halter. Thus Apollo,
A prophet never known to lie, foretold.
Myself will come, like a wayfaring man
Accoutred, guest and spear-guest of this house,[f7]
With Pylades, my friend, to the court gates.
We both will speak with a Parnassian voice,
Aping the Phocian tongue. If then it chance
(As seems most like, for this whole house with ills
Is sheer possessed)[n41] that with a welcome greeting
No servant shall receive us, we will wait
Till some one pass, and for their churlish ways
Rate them thus sharply. “Sirs, why dare ye shut
Inhospitable doors against the stranger,[n42]
Making Ægisthus sin against the gods?”
When thus I pass the threshold of his courts,
And see him sitting on my father’s throne,
When he shall scan me face to face, and seek
To hear my tale; ere he may say the word,
Whence is the stranger? I will lay him dead,
Dressing him trimly o’er with points of steel.
The Fury thus, not scanted of her banquet,
Shall drink unmingled blood from Pelops’ veins,
The third and crowning cup.[n43] Now, sister, see to ’t
That all within be ordered, as shall serve
My end most fitly. Ye, when ye shall speak,
Speak words of happy omen; teach your tongue
Both to be silent, and to speak in season.
For what remains, his present aid I ask,
Who laid on my poor wits this bloody task.[n44] [Exeunt.
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
Earth breeds a fearful progeny,[n45]
To man a hostile band.
With finny monsters teems the sea,
With creeping plagues the land;
And winged portents scour mid-air,
And flaring lightnings fly,
And storms, sublimely coursing, scare
The fields of the silent sky.
ANTISTROPHE I.
But Earth begets no monster dire
Than man’s own heart more dreaded,
All-venturing woman’s dreadful ire,[n46]
When love to woe is wedded.
No mate with mate there gently dwells,
There peace and joy depart,
Where loveless love triumphant swells,
In fearless woman’s heart.
STROPHE II.
This the light-witted may not know,
The wise shall understand,
Who hear the tale from age to age,
How Thestios’ daughter, wild with rage,[n47]
Lighted the fatal brand,
The brand that burned with conscious flashes
At the cry of her new-born son;
And, when the brand had burned to ashes,
His measured course was run.
ANTISTROPHE II.
And yet a tale of bloody love
From hoary eld I know,
How Scylla gay, in gold arrayed,[n48]
The gift of Minos old, betrayed
Her father to the foe.
Sleeping all careless as he lay,
She cut the immortal hair,
And Hermes bore his life away,
From the bold and blushless fair.
STROPHE III.
Ah me! not far needs fancy range
For tales of harshest wrong:
Here, even here, damned wedlock thrives,
And lawless loves are strong.
Within these halls, where blazes now
No holy hearth, a bloody vow
Against her liege lord’s life
She vowed; and he, the king divine,
Whose look back-drove the bristling line,
Bled by a woman’s knife.
ANTISTROPHE III.
O woman! woman! Lemnos saw[n49]
Your jealous fountains flow,
And, when the worst of woes is named,
It is a Lemnian woe.
From age to age the infected tale,
Far echoed by a wandering wail,
To East and West shall go;
And honor from the threshold hies,
On which the doom god-spoken lies;[n50]
Speak I not wisely so?
STROPHE IV.
Right through the heart shall pierce the blow,
When Justice is the sinner’s foe,
With the avenging steel;
In vain with brief success they strove,
Who trampled on the law of Jove,
With unregarding heel.
ANTISTROPHE IV.
Firm is the base of Justice. Fate,
With whetted knife, doth eager wait
At hoary Murder’s door;
The Fury, with dark-bosomed ire,
Doth send the son a mission dire,
To clear the parent’s score.
Enter Orestes.
Orestes.
What, ho! dost hear no knocking? boy! within!
Is none within, boy? ho! dost hear me call
The third time at thy portal? Is Ægisthus
A man, whose ears are deaf to the strangers’ cry?
Servant.
(appearing at the door)
Enough. I hear thee. Who thou, and whence?
Orestes.
Tell those within that a poor stranger waits
Before the gate, bearer of weighty news.
Speed thee; night’s dusky chariot swoopeth down,
And the dark hour invites the travelling man
To fix his anchor ’neath some friendly roof.
Thy mistress I would see, if here a mistress
Rules, or thy master rather, if a master.
For with a man a man may plainly deal,
But nice regard for the fine feeling ear[n51]
Oft mars the teller’s tale, when women hear.
Enter Clytemnestra.
Clytemnestra.
Strangers, speak your desire. Whate’er becomes
This house to give is free to you to share.
Hot baths,[n52] a couch to soothe your travelled toil,
Blithe welcoming eyes, and gentle tendance; these
I freely give. If aught beyond ye crave,
There’s counsel with my lord. I’ll speak to him.
Orestes.
I am a stranger come from Phocian Daulis.
When I, my burden to my back well saddled,
Stood for the road accoutred, lo! a man
To me not known, nor of me knowing more,
But seeing only that my feet were bound
For Argos, thus accosted me (his name,
I learned, was Strophius the Phocian): Stranger,
If Argos be thy purpose, bear this message
From me to whom it touches near. Orestes
Is dead; charge well thy memory with the tale,
And bring me mandate back, if so his friends
Would have him carried to his native home,
Or he with us due sepulture shall find,
A sojourner for ever. A brazen urn
Holds all the remnant of the much-wept man,
The ashes of his clay. Thus Strophius spake:
And if ye are the friends, whom chiefly grief
Pricks for his loss, my mission’s done; at least
His parents will be grieved to hear ’t.
Electra.[n53]
Woe’s me!
Sheer down we topple from proud height; harsh fate
Is ours to wrestle with. O jealous Curse,
How dost thou eye us fatal from afar,
And with thy well-trimmed bow shoot chiefly there
Where thou wert least suspect! Thou hast me now
A helpless captive lorn, and reft of all
My trustiest friends. Orestes also gone,
Whose feet above the miry slough most sure
Seemed planted! Now our revelry of hope,
The fair account that should have surgeoned woe,
Is audited at nothing![n54]
Orestes.
Would the gods,
Where happy hosts, give welcome, I were guest
On a more pleasant tale! The entertained
No greater joy can know than with good news
To recreate his entertainer’s ears;
But piety forbade, nor faith allowed
To lop the head of truth.
Clytemnestra.
Thou shalt not fare the worse for thy bad news,
Nor be less dear to us. Hadst thou been dumb,
Some other tongue had vented the sad tale.
But ye have travelled weary leagues to-day,
And doubtless need restoring. Take him, boy,
With the attendant sharers of his travel,
To the men’s chambers. See them well bestowed,
And do all things as one, that for neglect
Shall give account. Meanwhile, our lord shall know
What fate hath chanced; his wit and mine shall find
What solace may be for these news unkind.
[Exeunt into the house.
Chorus.
When, O when, shall we, my sisters,
Lift the strong full-throated hymn,
To greet Orestes’ triumph? Thou,
O sacred Earth, and verge revered
Of this lofty mound, where sleeps
The kingly helmsman of our State,
Hear thou, and help! prevail the hour
Of suasive wile, and smooth deceit![n55]
Herald him Hermes—lead him, thou
The nightly courier of the dead,[n56]
Through this black business of the sword!
In sooth the host hath housed a grievous guest;
For see where comes Orestes’ nurse, all tears!
Where goest thou, nurse, beyond our gates to walk,
And why walks Grief, an unfee’d page, with thee!
Enter Nurse.
Nurse.
My mistress bids me bring Ægisthus quickly,
To see the strangers face to face, that he
May of their sad tale more assurance win
From their own mouths. Herself to us doth show
A murky-visaged grief; but in her eye
Twinkles a secret joy, that time hath brought
The consummation most devoutly wished
By her—to us and Agamemnon’s house
Most fatal issue, if these news be true.
Ægisthus, too, with a light heart will hear
These Phocian tidings. O wretched me! what weight
Of mingled woes from sire to son bequeathed,
Have the gods burdened us withal! Myself,
How many griefs have shaken my old heart;
But this o’ertops them all! The rest I bore,
As best I might, with patience: but Orestes,
My own dear boy, my daily, hourly care,
Whom from his mother’s womb these breasts did suckle—
How often did I rise o’ nights, and walked
From room to room, to soothe his baby cries;
But all my nursing now, and all my cares
Fall fruitless. ’Tis a pithless thing a child,
No forest whelp so helpless; one must even
Wait on its humour, as the hour may bring.
No voice it has to speak its fitful wants,
When hunger, thirst, or Nature’s need commands.
The infant’s belly asks no counsel. I
Was a wise prophetess to all his wants,
Though sometimes false, as others are. I was
Nurse to the child, and fuller to its clothes,
And both to one sad end. Alack the day!
This double trade with little fruit I plied,
What time I nursed Orestes for his father;
For he is dead, and I must live to hear it.
But I must go, and glad his heart, who lives
Plague of this house, with news that make me weep.
Chorus.
What say’st thou, Nurse? how shall thy master come?
Nurse.
How say’st thou? how shall I receive the question?
Chorus.
Alone, I mean, or with his guards?
Nurse.
She says
His spearmen shall attend him.
Chorus.
Not so, Nurse!
If thou dost hate our most hate-worthy master,
Tell him to come alone, without delay,
To hear glad tidings with exulting heart.
The bearer of a tale can make it wear
What face he pleases.[n57]
Nurse.
Well! if thou mean’st well,
Perhaps—
Chorus.
Perhaps that Jove may make the breeze
Yet veer to us.
Nurse.
How so? Our only hope,
Orestes, is no more.
Chorus.
Softly, good Nurse;
Thou art an evil prophet, if thou say’st so.
Nurse.
How? hast thou news to a different tune?
Chorus.
Go! go!
Mind thine own business, and the gods will do
What thing they will do.
Nurse.
Well! I’ll do thy bidding!
The gods lead all things to a fair conclusion!
CHORAL HYMN.[n58]
STROPHE I.
O thou, o’er all Olympian gods that be,
Supremely swaying,
With words of wisdom, when I pray to thee,
Inspire my praying.
We can but pray; to do, O Jove, is thine,
Thou great director;
Of him within, who works thy will divine,
Be thou protector!
Him raise, the orphaned son whom thou dost see
In sheer prostration;
Twofold and threefold he shall find from thee
Just compensation.
ANTISTROPHE I.
But hard the toil. Yoked to the car of Fate,
When harshly driven,
O rein him thou! his goaded speed abate
Wisely from Heaven!
Jove tempers all, steadies all things that reel;
When wildly swerveth
From the safe line life’s burning chariot wheel,
His hand preserveth.
Ye gods, that guard these gold-stored halls, this day
Receive the claimant,
Who comes, that old Wrong to young Right may pay
A purple payment.
STROPHE II.
Blood begets blood; but, when this blow shall fall,
O thou, whose dwelling
Is Delphi’s fuming throat, may this be all!
Of red blood, welling
From guilty veins, enough. Henceforth may joy
Look from the eyes of the Atridan boy,
Discerning clearly
From his ancestral halls the clouds unrolled,
That hung so drearly.
ANTISTROPHE II.
And thou, O Maia’s son,[f8] fair breezes blow,
The full sail swelling!
Cunning art thou through murky ways to go,
To Death’s dim dwelling;
Dark are the doings of the gods; and we,
When they are clearest shown, but dimly see;
Yet faith will follow
Where Hermes leads, the leader of the dead,
And thou, Apollo.
EPODE.
Crown ye the deed; then will I freely pour
The blithe libation,
And, with pure offerings, cleanse the Atridan floor
From desecration!
Then with my prosperous hymn the lyre shall blend
Its kindly chorus,
And Argos shall be glad, and every friend
Rejoice before us!
Gird thee with manhood, boy; though hard to do,
It is thy father’s work; to him be true.
And, when she cries—Son, wilt thou kill thy Mother?
Cry—Father, Father! and with that name smother
The rising ruth. As Perseus, when he slew
The stony Dread,[f9] was stony-hearted, do
Thy mission stoutly;
For him below, and her above,[f10] pursue
This work devoutly.
The gods by thee, in righteous judgment, show
Their grace untender!
Thou to the man, that dealt the deathful blow,
Like death shalt render.
Enter Ægisthus.
Ægisthus.
Not uninvited come I, having heard
A rumour strange, by certain strangers brought,
No pleasant tale—Orestes’ death. In sooth,
A heavy fear-distilling sorrow this,
More than a house may bear, whose wounds yet bleed,
And ulcerate from the fangs of fate. But say,
Is this a fact that looks us in the face,
Or startling words of woman’s fears begotten,
That shoot like meteors through the air, and die?
What proof, ye maids, what proof?
Chorus.
Our ears have heard.
But go within; thyself shalt see the man;
Try well the teller, e’er thou trust the tale.
Ægisthus.
I’ll scan him well, and prove him close, if he
Himself was at the death, or but repeat
From blind report the news another told.
It will go hard, if idle breath cheat me.
My eyes are in my head, and I can see.
[Exit into the house.
Chorus.
Jove! great Jove! What shall I say?
How with pious fervour pray,
That from thee the answer fair
Be wafted to my friendly prayer?
Now the keen-edged axe shall strike,
With a life-destroying blow;
Now, or, plunged in deep perdition,
Agamemnon’s house sinks low,
Or the hearth with hope this day
Shall blaze, through all the ransomed halls,
And the son his father’s wealth
Shall win, and with his sceptre sway.
In the bloody combat fresh,
He shall risk it, one with two;
Hand to hand the fight shall be.
Godlike son of Agamemnon,
Jove give strength to thee!
Ægisthus.
(from within)
Ah me! I fall. Ah! Ah!
Chorus.
Hear’st thou that cry? How is’t? Whose was that groan?
Let’s go aside, the deed being done, that we
Seem not partakers of the bloody work.[n59]
’Tis ended now.
Enter Servant.
Servant.
Woe’s me! my murdered master!
Thrice woeful deed! Ægisthus lives no more.
Open the women’s gates! uncase the bolts!
Were needed here a Titan’s strength—though that
Would nothing boot the dead. Ho! hillo! ho!
Are all here deaf? or do I babble breath
In sleepers’ ears? Where, where is Clytemnestra?
What keeps my mistress? On a razor’s edge
Her fate now lies; the blow’s already poised,
That falls on her too—nor unjustly falls.
Enter Clytemnestra.
Clytemnestra.
Well! what’s the matter? why this clamorous cry?
Servant.
He, who was dead, has slain the quick. ’Tis so.
Clytemnestra.
Ha! Thou speak’st riddles; but I understand thee.
We die by guile, as guilefully we slew.
Bring me an axe! an axe to kill a man!
Quickly!—or conqueror or conquered, I
Will fight it out. To this ’tis come at last.
[Enter Orestes, dragging in the dead body of Ægisthus; with him Pylades.
Orestes.
Thee next I seek. For him, he hath enough.
Clytemnestra.
Ah me! my lord, my loved Ægisthus dead!
Orestes.
Dost love this man? then thou shalt sleep with him,
In the same tomb. He was thy bedmate living,
Be thou his comrade, dead.
Clytemnestra.
Hold thee, my son!
Look on this breast, to which with slumbrous eyes
Thou oft hast clung, the while thy baby gum
Sucked the nutritious milk.
Orestes.
What say’st thou, Pylades?
Shall I curtail the work, and spare my mother?
Pylades.
Bethink thee well; the Loxian oracles,
Thy sure-pledged vows, where are they, if she live?
Make every man thy foe, but fear the gods.
Orestes.
Thy voice shall rule in this; thou judgest wisely.
Follow this man; here, side by side with him,
I’ll butcher thee. Seemed he a fairer man
Than was my father when my father lived?
Sleep thou, where he sleeps; him thou lovest well,
And whom thou chiefly shouldst have loved thou hatedst.
Clytemnestra.
I nursed thy childhood, and in peace would die.[n60]
Orestes.
Spare thee to live with me—my father’s murderer?
Clytemnestra.
Not I; say rather Fate ordained his death.
Orestes.
The self-same Fate ordains thee now to die.
Clytemnestra.
My curse beware, the mother’s curse that bore thee.
Orestes.
That cast me homeless from my father’s house.
Clytemnestra.
Nay; to a friendly house I lent thee, boy.
Orestes.
Being free-born, I like a slave was sold.
Clytemnestra.
I trafficked not with thee. I gat no gold.
Orestes.
Worse—worse than gold—a thing too foul to name!
Clytemnestra.
Name all my faults; but had thy father none?
Orestes.
Thou art a woman sitting in thy chamber.[n61]
Judge not the man that goes abroad, and labours.
Clytemnestra.
Hard was my lot, my child, alone, uncherished.
Orestes.
Alone by the fire, while for thy gentle ease
The husband toiled.
Clytemnestra.
Thou wilt not kill me, son?
Orestes.
I kill thee not. Thyself dost kill thyself.
Clytemnestra.
Beware thy mother’s anger-whetted hounds.[f11]
Orestes.
My father’s hounds have hunted me to thee.
Clytemnestra.
The stone that sepulchres the dead art thou,
And I the tear on’t.
Orestes.
Cease: I voyaged here,
With a fair breeze; my father’s murder brought me.
Clytemnestra.
Ah me! I nursed a serpent on my breast.
Orestes.[n62]
Thou hadst a prophet in thy dream, last night;
And since thou kill’d the man thou shouldst have spared,
The man, that now should spare thee, can but kill.
[He drives her into the house, and there murders her.
Chorus.
There’s food for sorrow here; but rather, since
Orestes could not choose but scale the height
Of bloody enterprise, our prayer is this:
That he, the eye of this great house, may live.[n63]
CHORAL HYMN.
STROPHE I.
Hall of old Priam, with sorrow unbearable,
Vengeance hath come on the Argive thy foe;
A pair of grim lions, a double Mars terrible,[n64]
Comes to his palace, that levelled thee low.
Chanced hath the doom of the guilty precisely,
Even as Phœbus foretold it, and wisely
Where the god pointed, was levelled the blow.
Lift up the hymn of rejoicing; the lecherous,
Sin-laden tyrant shall lord it no more;
No more shall the mistress so bloody and treacherous
Lavish the plundered Pelopidan store.
STROPHE II.
Sore chastisement[n65] came on the doomed and devoted,
With dark-brooding purpose and fair-smiling show;
And the daughter of Jove the eternal was noted,
Guiding the hand that inflicted the blow—
Bright Justice, of Jove, the Olympian daughter;
But blasted they fell with the breath of her slaughter
Whose deeds of injustice made Justice their foe.
Her from his shrine sent the rock-throned Apollo,[n66]
The will of her high-purposed sire to obey,
The track of the blood-stained remorseless to follow,
Winged with sure death, though she lag by the way.
EPODE.
Ye rulers on Earth, fear the rulers in Heaven,
No aid by the gods to the froward is given;
For the bonds of our thraldom asunder are riven,
And the day dawns clear.
Lift up your heads; from prostration untimely
Ye halls of the mighty be lifted sublimely!
All-perfecting Time shall bring swift restitution,
And cleanse the hearth pure from the gory pollution,
Now the day dawns clear.
And blithely shall welcome them Fortune the fairest,[n67]
The brother and sister, with omens the rarest;
Each friend of this house show the warm love thou bearest,
Now the day dawns clear!
Enter Orestes, with the body of Clytemnestra.
Orestes.
Behold this tyrant pair, my father’s murderers,
Usurpers of this land, and of this house
Destroyers. They this throne did use in pride,
And now in love, as whoso looks may guess,
They lie together, all their vows fulfilled.
Death to my hapless father, and to lie
Themselves on a common bier—this was their vow;
And they have vowed it well. Behold these toils,
Wherewith they worked destruction to my father,
Chained his free feet, and manacled his hands.
There—spread it forth—approach—peruse it nicely.
This mortal vest, that so the father—not
My father, but the Sun that fathers all
With light[n68]—may see what godless deed was done
Here by my mother. Let him witness duly,
That not unjustly I have spilt this blood—
My mother’s; for Ægisthus recks me not;
As an adulterer should, he died: but she,
That did devise such foul detested wrong
Against the lord, to whom beneath her zone
She bore a burden, once so valued, now
A weight that damns her; what was she?—a viper
Or a torpedo—that with biteless touch
Strikes numb who handles.[n69] Harsh the smoothest phrase
To name the bold unrighteous will she used.
And for this fowler’s net—this snare—this trap—
This cloth to wrap the dead[n70]—this veil to curtain
A bloody bath—teach me a name for it!
Such murderous toils the ruffians use, who spill
Their neighbour’s blood, that they may seize his gold,
And warm their heart with plenty not their own.
Lodge no such mate with me! Sooner may I
Live by high Heaven accursed, and childless die.
Chorus.
A sorry work—alas! alas!
A dismal death she found.
Nor sorrow quite from man may pass
That lives above the ground.
Orestes.
A speaking proof! Behold, Ægisthus’ sword
Hath left its witness on this robe; the time
Hath paled the murtherous spot, but where it was
The sumptuous stole hath lost its radiant dye.
Alas! I know not, when mine eyes behold
This father-murdering web, if I should own
Joy lord, or grief. Let grief prevail. I grieve
Our crimes, our woes, our generation doomed,
Our tearful trophies blazoned with a curse.
Chorus.
The gods so will that, soon or late,
Each mortal taste of sorrow;
A frown to-day from surly Fate,
A biting blast to-morrow.
Orestes.
Others ’twixt hope and fear may sway, my fate
Is fixed and scapeless.[n71] Like a charioteer,
Dragged from his course by steeds that spurned the rein,
Thoughts past control usurp me. Terror lifts,
Even now, the prelude to her savage hymn,
Within my heart exultant. But, while yet
My sober mind remains, witness ye all
My friends, this solemn abjuration! Not
Unjustly, when I slew, I slew my mother—
That mother, with my father’s blood polluted,
Of every god abhorred. And I protest
The god that charmed me to the daring point
Was Loxias, with his Pythian oracles,
Pledging me blameless, this harsh work once done,
Not done, foredooming what I will not say;
All thoughts most horrible undershoot the mark.
And now behold me, as a suppliant goes,
With soft-wreathed wool, and precatory branch,[n72]
Addressed for Delphi, the firm-seated shrine
Of Loxias, navel of earth, where burns the flame
Of fire immortal named.[n73] For I must flee
This kindred blood, and hie me where the god
Forespoke me refuge. Once again I call
On you, and Argive men of every time,
To witness my great griefs. I go an exile
From this dear soil. Living, or dead, I leave
These words, the one sad memory of my name.
Chorus.
Thou hast done well; yoke not thy mouth this day
To evil words. Thou art the liberator
Of universal Argos, justly greeted,
Who from the dragon pair the head hath lopped.
[The Furies appear in the background.
Orestes.
Ah, me! see there! like Gorgons! look! look there!
All dusky-vested, and their locks entwined
With knotted snakes. Away! I may not stay.
Chorus.
O son, loved of thy sire, be calm, nor let
Vain phantoms fret thy soul, in triumph’s hour.
Orestes.
These are no phantoms, but substantial horrors;
Too like themselves they show, the infernal hounds
Sent from my mother!
Chorus.
’Tis the fresh-gouted blood
Upon thy hand, that breeds thy brain’s distraction.
Orestes.
Ha! how they swarm! Apollo! more—yet more!
And from their fell eyes droppeth murderous gore.
Chorus.
There is atonement.[n74] Touch but Loxias’ altar,
And he from bloody stain shall wash thee clean.
Orestes.
Ye see them not. I see them.[n75] There!—Away!
The hell-hounds hunt me: here I may not stay.
Chorus.
Nay, but with blessing go. From fatal harm
Guard thee the god whose eyes in love behold thee![n76]
Blown hath now the third harsh tempest,
O’er the proud Atridan palace,
Floods of family woe!
First thy damned feast, Thyestes,
On thy children’s flesh abhorrent;
Then the kingly man’s prostration,
And thy warlike pride, Achaia,
Butchered in a bath;
Now he, too, our greeted Saviour
Red with this new woe!
When shall Fate’s stern work be ended,
When shall cease the boisterous vengeance,
Hushed in slumbers low?
[The End]