High honour did our father pay to thee,
Rich gifts he gave thy shrine; his offspring gone,
Who will be left to heap thy altars more?
Thy race of eagles lost, thou wilt have none
To be the herald of thy will to man.
This royal stock blasted, thou wilt have none
To tend thy shrine on days of sacrifice.
Watch o'er us, and the house that now seems fallen
Past hope, may to its ancient greatness rise.
CHORUS.
My children, of your line sole trust and stay,
Be silent lest your words be overheard,
And borne by some loose babbler to the ear
Of those in power, whom soon I hope to see
Laid smouldering on the pitchy funeral pile.
ORESTES.
My trust is in Apollo's oracle
That bade me set forth on this enterprise,
With high command and threats of dire disease
To gripe my vitals if I failed to wreak
Vengeance upon my father's murderers,
Enjoining me to slay as they had slain,
Taking no fine as quittance for his blood.
For this was I to answer with my life.
And as I would escape the penalties
[Footnote: This passage is corrupt or dislocated, and perplexes the
commentators. I have tried to give the general sense.]
That injured and neglected ghosts demand;
As fell diseases that with cankering maw
Eat the distempered flesh from off the bones,
Madness and panic fears that haunt by night;
Then banishment from human intercourse;
From the libation, from the loving cup,
And from the altar, whence a father's wrath
Unseen should drive the recreant; at the last
Death without honour and without a friend.—
Think ye that I such oracles could slight?
And if I did, the deed must still be done;
For many motives join to set me on:
The gods command, my murdered father calls
For vengeance, and my desperate need impels;
All bid me save our famous citizens,
Troy's glorious conquerors, from the base yoke
Of yonder pair of women; for his heart
Is womanish, if not, we soon will know.
* * * * *
CLYTAEMNESTRA PLEADS TO HER SON ORESTES FOR HER LIFE IN VAIN.
LINES 860-916.
SERVANT.
Alas! my lord is slain, my lord is slain,
My lord is slain; Aegisthus is no more.
Haste and unbar the woman's chamber, haste;
Be stirring, or your aid will come too late.
What, ho! what, ho!
I shout unto the sleeping or the deaf.
Whither has Clytaemnestra gone? What does she?
Now is the queen on peril's sharpest edge,
And like to fall by the avenger's sword.