Part 13

CHORUS Thou biddest; I will speak my soul’s thought out, Revering as a shrine thy father’s grave.

ELECTRA Say then thy say, as thou his tomb reverest.

CHORUS Speak solemn words to them that love, and pour.

ELECTRA And of his kin whom dare I name as kind?

CHORUS Thyself; and next, whoe’er Aegisthus scorns.

ELECTRA Then ’tis myself and thou, my prayer must name.

CHORUS Whoe’er they be, ’tis thine to know and name them.

ELECTRA Is there no other we may claim as ours?

CHORUS Think of Orestes, though far-off he be.

ELECTRA Right well in this too hast thou schooled my thought.

CHORUS Mindfully, next, on those who shed the blood—

ELECTRA Pray on them what? expound, instruct my doubt.

CHORUS This; Upon them some god or mortal come——

ELECTRA As judge or as avenger? speak thy thought.

CHORUS Pray in set terms, Who shall the slayer slay.

ELECTRA Beseemeth it to ask such boon of heaven?

CHORUS How not, to wreak a wrong upon a foe?

ELECTRA O mighty Hermes, warder of the shades, Herald of upper and of under world, Proclaim and usher down my prayer’s appeal Unto the gods below, that they with eyes Watchful behold these halls, my sire’s of old— And unto Earth, the mother of all things, And foster-nurse, and womb that takes their seed.

Lo, I that pour these draughts for men now dead, Call on my father, who yet holds in ruth Me and mine own Orestes, Father, speak— How shall thy children rule thine halls again? Homeless we are and sold; and she who sold Is she who bore us; and the price she took Is he who joined with her to work thy death, Aegisthus, her new lord. Behold me here Brought down to slave’s estate, and far away Wanders Orestes, banished from the wealth That once was thine, the profit of thy care, Whereon these revel in a shameful joy. Father, my prayer is said; ’tis thine to hear— Grant that some fair fate bring Orestes home, And unto me grant these—a purer soul Than is my mother’s, a more stainless hand.

These be my prayers for us; for thee, O sire, I cry that one may come to smite thy foes, And that the slayers may in turn be slain. Cursed is their prayer, and thus I bar its path, Praying mine own, a counter-curse on them. And thou, send up to us the righteous boon For which we pray: thine aids be heaven and earth, And justice guide the right to victory,

Thus have I prayed, and thus I shed these streams, And follow ye the wont, and as with flowers Crown ye with many a tear and cry the dirge, Your lips ring out above the dead man’s grave.

CHORUS Woe, woe, woe! Let the teardrop fall, plashing on the ground Where our lord lies low: Fall and cleanse away the cursed libation’s stain, Shed on this grave-mound, Fenced wherein together, gifts of good or bane From the dead are found. Lord of Argos, hearken! Though around thee darken Mist of death and hell, arise and hear! Hearken and awaken to our cry of woe! Who with might of spear Shall our home deliver? Who like Ares bend until it quiver, Bend the northern bow? Who with hand upon the hilt himself will thrust with glaive, Thrust and slay and save?

ELECTRA Lo! the earth drinks them, to my sire they pass— Learn ye with me of this thing new and strange.

CHORUS Speak thou; my breast doth palpitate with fear.

ELECTRA I see upon the tomb a curl new shorn.

CHORUS Shorn from what man or what deep-girded maid?

ELECTRA That may he guess who will; the sign is plain.

CHORUS Let me learn this of thee; let youth prompt age.