{"collection":"Classics","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/cla/aesch/choeph.htm","path":"cla/aesch/choeph.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/cla/aesch/choeph.htm","text":"Dramatis Personae\nORESTES, son of AGAMEMNON and CLYTEMNESTRA\nCHORUS OF SLAVE WOMEN\nELECTRA, sister of ORESTES\nA NURSE\nCLYTEMNESTRA\nAEGISTHUS\nAN ATTENDANT\nBy the tomb of Agamemnon near the palace in Argos. ORESTES and PYLADES\nenter, dressed as travellers. ORESTES carries two locks of hair in\nhis hand.\nORESTES Lord of the shades and patron of the realm\nThat erst my father swayed, list now my prayer,\nHermes, and save me with thine aiding arm,\nMe who from banishment returning stand\nOn this my country; lo, my foot is set\nOn this grave-mound, and herald-like, as thou,\nOnce and again, I bid my father hear.\nAnd these twin locks, from mine head shorn, I bring,\nAnd one to Inachus the river-god,\nMy young life's nurturer, I dedicate,\nAnd one in sign of mourning unfulfilled\nI lay, though late, on this my father's grave.\nFor O my father, not beside thy corse\nStood I to wail thy death, nor was my hand\nStretched out to bear thee forth to burial.\nWhat sight is yonder? what this woman-throng\nHitherward coming, by their sable garb\nMade manifest as mourners? What hath chanced?\nDoth some new sorrow hap within the home?\nOr rightly may I deem that they draw near\nBearing libations, such as soothe the ire\nOf dead men angered, to my father's grave?\nNay, such they are indeed; for I descry\nElectra mine own sister pacing hither,\nIn moody grief conspicuous. Grant, O Zeus,\nGrant me my father's murder to avenge-\nBe thou my willing champion!\nPylades,\nPass we aside, till rightly I discern\nWherefore these women throng in suppliance. (PYLADES and ORESTES\nwithdraw; the CHORUS enters bearing vessels for libation; ELECTRA\nfollows them; they pace slowly towards the tomb of Agamemnon.)\nCHORUS (singing, strophe 1)\nForth from the royal halls by high command\nI bear libations for the dead.\nRings on my smitten breast my smiting hand,\nAnd all my cheek is rent and red,\nFresh-furrowed by my nails, and all my soul\nThis many a day doth feed on cries of dole.\nAnd trailing tatters of my vest,\nIn looped and windowed raggedness forlorn,\nHang rent around my breast,\nEven as I, by blows of Fate most stern\nSaddened and torn.\n(antistrophe 1)\nOracular thro' visions, ghastly clear,\nBearing a blast of wrath from realms below,\nAnd stiffening each rising hair with dread,\nCame out of dream-land Fear,\nAnd, loud and awful, bade\nThe shriek ring out at midnight's witching hour,\nAnd brooded, stern with woe,\nAbove the inner house, the woman's bower\nAnd seers inspired did read the dream on oath,\nChanting aloud In realms below\nThe dead are wroth;\nAgainst their slayers yet their ire doth glow.\n(strophe 2)\nTherefore to bear this gift of graceless worth-\nO Earth, my nursing mother!-\nThe woman god-accurs'd doth send me forth\nLest one crime bring another.\nIll is the very word to speak, for none\nCan ransom or atone\nFor blood once shed and darkening the plain.\nO hearth of woe and bane,\nO state that low doth lie!\nSunless, accursed of men, the shadows brood\nAbove the home of murdered majesty.\n(antistrophe 2)\nRumour of might, unquestioned, unsubdued,\nPervading ears and soul of lesser men,\nIs silent now and dead.\nYet rules a viler dread;\nFor bliss and power, however won,\nAs gods, and more than gods, dazzle our mortal ken.\nJustice doth mark, with scales that swiftly sway,\nSome that are yet in light;\nOthers in interspace of day and night,\nTill Fate arouse them, stay;\nAnd some are lapped in night, where all things are undone\n(strophe 3)\nOn the life-giving lap of Earth\nBlood hath flowed forth;\nAnd now, the seed of vengeance, clots the plain-\nUnmelting, uneffaced the stain.\nAnd Ate tarries long, but at the last\nThe sinner's heart is cast\nInto pervading, waxing pangs of pain.\n(antistrophe 3)\nLo, when man's force doth ope\nThe virgin doors, there is nor cure nor hope\nFor what is lost,-even so, I deem,\nThough in one channel ran Earth's every stream,\nLaving the hand defiled from murder's stain,\nIt were in vain.\n(epode)\nAnd upon me-ah me!-the gods have laid\nThe woe that wrapped round Troy,\nWhat time they led me down from home and kin\nUnto a slave's employ-\nThe doom to bow the head\nAnd watch our master's will\nWork deeds of good and ill-\nTo see the headlong sway of force and sin,\nAnd hold restrained the spirit's bitter hate,\nWailing the monarch's fruitless fate,\nHiding my face within my robe, and fain\nOf tears, and chilled with frost of hidden pain.\nELECTRA Handmaidens, orderers of the palace-halls,\nSince at my side ye come, a suppliant train,\nCompanions of this offering, counsel me\nAs best befits the time: for I, who pour\nUpon the grave these streams funereal,\nWith what fair word can I invoke my sire?\nShall I aver, Behold, I bear these gifts\nFrom well-loved wife unto her well-loved lord,\nWhen 'tis from her, my mother, that they come?\nI dare not say it: of all words I fail\nWherewith to consecrate unto my sire\nThese sacrificial honours on his grave.\nOr shall I speak this word, as mortals use-\nGive back, to those who send these coronals,\nFull recompense-of ills for acts malign?\nOr shall I pour this draught for Earth to drink,\nSans word or reverence, as my sire was slain,\nAnd homeward pass with unreverted eyes,\nCasting the bowl away, as one who flings\nThe household cleansings to the common road?\nBe art and part, O friends, in this my doubt,\nEven as ye are in that one common hate\nWhereby we live attended: fear ye not\nThe wrath of any man, nor hide your word\nWithin your breast: the day of death and doom\nAwaits alike the freeman and the slave.\nSpeak, then, if aught thou know'st to aid us more.\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS Thou biddest; I will speak my soul's thought\nout,\nRevering as a shrine thy father's grave.\nELECTRA Say then thy say, as thou his tomb reverest.\nLEADER Speak solemn words to them that love, and pour.\nELECTRA And of his kin whom dare I name as kind?\nLEADER Thyself; and next, whoe'er Aegisthus scorns.\nELECTRA Then 'tis myself and thou, my prayer must name.\nLEADER Whoe'er they be, 'tis thine to know and name them.\nELECTRA Is there no other we may claim as ours?\nLEADER Think of Orestes, though far-off he be.\nELECTRA Right well in this too hast thou schooled my thought.\nLEADER Mindfully, next, on those who shed the blood-\nELECTRA Pray on them what? expound, instruct my doubt.\nLEADER This: Upon them some god or mortal come-\nELECTRA As judge or as avenger? speak thy thought.\nLEADER Pray in set terms, Who shall the slayer slay.\nELECTRA Beseemeth it to ask such boon of heaven?\nLEADER How not, to wreak a wrong upon a foe?\nELECTRA (praying at the tomb) O mighty Hermes, warder of the shades,\nHerald of upper and of under world,\nProclaim and usher down my prayer's appeal\nUnto the gods below, that they with eyes\nWatchful behold these halls. my sire's of old-\nAnd unto Earth, the mother of all things,\nAnd loster-nurse, and womb that takes their seed.\nLo, I that pour these draughts for men now dead,\nCall on my father, who yet holds in ruth\nMe and mine own Orestes, Father, speak-\nHow shall thy children rule thine halls again?\nHomeless we are and sold; and she who sold\nIs she who bore us; and the price she took\nIs he who joined with her to work thy death,\nAegisthus, her new lord. Behold me here\nBrought down to slave's estate, and far away\nWanders Orestes, banished from the wealth\nThat once was thine, the profit of thy care,\nWhereon these revel in a shameful joy.\nFather, my prayer is said; 'tis thine to hear-\nGrant that some fair fate bring Orestes home,\nAnd unto me grant these-a purer soul\nThan is my mother's, a more stainless hand.\nThese be my prayers for us; for thee, O sire,\nI cry that one may come to smite thy fops,\nAnd that the slayers may in turn be slain.\nCursed is their prayer, and thus I bar its path,\nPraying mine own, a counter-curse on them.\nAnd thou, send up to us the righteous boon\nFor which we pray; thine aids be heaven and earth,\nAnd justice guide the right to victory. (To the CHORUS) Thus have\nI prayed, and thus I shed these streams,\nAnd follow ye the wont, and as with flowers\nCrown ye with many a tear and cry the dirge\nYour lips ring out above the dead man's grave. (She pours the libations.)\nCHORUS (chanting) Woe, woe, woe!\nLet the teardrop fall, plashing on the ground\nWhere our lord lies low:\nFall and cleanse away the cursed libation's stair.,\nShed on this grave-mound,\nFenced wherein together, gifts of good or bane\nFrom the dead are found.\nLord of Argos, hearken!\nThough around thee darken\nMist of death and hell, arise and hear\nHearken and awaken to our cry of woe!\nWho with might of spear\nShall our home deliver?\nWho like Ares bend until it quiver,\nBend the northern bow?\nWho with hand upon the hilt himself will thrust with glaive,\nThrust and slay and save?\nELECTRA Lo! the earth drinks them, to my sire they pass- (She notices\nthe locks of ORESTES.) Learn ye with me of this thing new and strange.\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS Speak thou; my breast doth palpitate with fear.\nELECTRA I see upon the tomb a curl new shorn.\nLEADER Shorn from wnat man or what deep-girded maid?\nELECTRA That may he, guess who will; the sign is plain.\nLEADER Let me learn this of thee; let youth prompt age.\nELECTRA None is there here but I, to clip such gift.\nLEADER For they who thus should mourn him hate him sore.\nELECTRA And lo! in truth the hair exceeding like-\nLEADER Like to what locks and whose? instruct me that.\nELECTRA Like unto those my father's children wear.\nLEADER Then is this lock Orestes' secret gift?\nELECTRA Most like it is unto the curls he wore.\nLEADER Yet how dared he to come unto his home?\nELECTRA He hath but sent it, clipt to mourn his sire.\nLEADER It is a sorrow grievous as his death,\nThat he should live yet never dare return.\nELECTRA Yea, and my heart o'erflows with gall of grief,\nAnd I am pierced as with a cleaving dart;\nLike to the first drops after drought, my tears\nFall down at will, a bitter bursting tide,\nAs on this lock I gaze; I cannot deem\nThat any Argive save Orestes' self\nWas ever lord thereof; nor, well I wot,\nHath she, the murd'ress, shorn and laid this lock\nTo mourn him whom she slew-my mother she,\nBearing no mother's heart, but to her race\nA loathing spirit, loathed itself of heaven!\nYet to affirm, as utterly made sure,\nThat this adornment cometh of the hand\nOf mine Orestes, brother of my soul,\nI may not venture, yet hope flatters fair!\nAh well-a-day, that this dumb hair had voice\nTo glad mine ears, as might a messenger,\nBidding me sway no more 'twixt fear and hope,\nClearly commanding, Cast me hence away,\nClipped was I from some head thou lovest not;\nOr, I am kin to thee, and here, as thou,\nI come to weep and deck our father's grave.\nAid me, ye gods! for well indeed ye know\nHow in the gale and counter-gale of doubt,\nLike to the seaman's bark, we whirl and stray.\nBut, if God will our life, how strong shall spring,\nFrom seed how small, the new tree of our home!-\nLo ye, a second sign-these footsteps, looks-\nLike to my own, a corresponsive print;\nAnd look, another footmark,-this his own,\nAnd that the foot of one who walked with him.\nMark, how the heel and tendons' print combine,\nMeasured exact, with mine coincident!\nAlas, for doubt and anguish rack my mind. (ORESTES and PYLADES enter\nsuddenly.)\nORESTES Pray thou, in gratitude for prayers fulfilled,\nFair fall the rest of what I ask of heaven.\nELECTRA Wherefore? what win I from the gods by prayer?\nORESTES This, that thine eyes behold thy heart's desire.\nELECTRA On whom of mortals know'st thou that I call?\nORESTES I know thy yearning for Orestes deep.\nELECTRA Say then, wherein event hath crowned my prayer?\nORESTES I, I am he; seek not one more akin.\nELECTRA Some fraud, O stranger, weavest thou for me?\nORESTES Against myself I weave it, if I weave.\nELECTRA Ah, thou hast mind to mock me in my woel\nORESTES 'Tis at mine own I mock then, mocking thine.\nELECTRA Speak I with thee then as Orestes' self?\nORESTES My very face thou see'st and know'st me not,\nAnd yet but now, when thou didst see the lock\nShorn for my father's grave, and when thy quest\nWas eager on the footprints I had made,\nEven I, thy brother, shaped and sized as thou,\nFluttered thy spirit, as at sight of me!\nLay now this ringlet whence 'twas shorn, and judge,\nAnd look upon this robe, thine own hands' work,\nThe shuttle-prints, the creature wrought thereon-\nRefrain thyself, nor prudence lose in joy,\nFor well I wot, our kin are less than kind.\nELECTRA O thou that art unto our father's home\nLove, grief and hope, for thee the tears ran down,\nFor thee, the son, the saviour that should be;\nTrust thou thine arm and win thy father's halls!\nO aspect sweet of fourfold love to me,\nWhom upon thee the heart's constraint bids cal\nAs on my father, and the claim of love\nFrom me unto my mother turns to thee,\nFor she is very hate; to thee too turns\nWhat of my heart went out to her who died\nA ruthless death upon the altar-stone;\nAnd for myself I love thee-thee that wast\nA brother leal, sole stay of love to me.\nNow by thy side be strength and right, and Zeus\nSaviour almighty, stand to aid the twain!\nORESTES Zeus, Zeus! look down on our estate and us,\nThe orphaned brood of him, our eagle-sire,\nWhom to his death a fearful serpent brought,\nEnwinding him in coils; and we, bereft\nAnd foodless, sink with famine, all too weak\nTo bear unto the eyrie, as he bore,\nSuch quarry as he slew. Lo! I and she,\nElectra, stand before thee, fatherless,\nAnd each alike cast out and homeless made.\nELECTRA And if thou leave to death the brood of him\nWhose altar blazed for thee, whose reverence\nWas thine, all thine,-whence, in the after years,\nShall any hand like his adorn thy shrine\nWith sacrifice of flesh? the eaglets slain,\nThou wouldst not have a messenger to bear\nThine omens, once so clear, to mortal men;\nSo, if this kingly stock be withered all,\nNone on high festivals will fend thy shrine.\nStoop thou to raise us! strong the race shall grow,\nThough puny now it seem, and fallen low.\nLEADER O children, saviours of your father's home,\nBeware ye of your words, lest one should hear\nAnd bear them, for the tongue hath lust to tell,\nUnto our masters-whom God grant to me\nIn pitchy reek of fun'ral flame to seel\nORESTES Nay, mighty is Apollo's oracle\nAnd shall not fail me, whom it bade to pass\nThro' all this peril; clear the voice rang out\nWith many warnings, sternly threatening\nTo my hot heart the wintry chill of pain,\nUnless upon the slayers of my sire\nI pressed for vengeance: this the god's command-\nThat I, in ire for home and wealth despoiled,\nShould with a craft like theirs the slayers slay:\nElse with my very life I should atone\nThis deed undone, in many a ghastly wise.\nFor he proclaimed unto the ears of men\nThat offerings, poured to angry powers of death,\nExude again, unless their will be done,\nAs grim disease on those that poured them forth-\nAs leprous ulcers mounting on the flesh\nAnd with fell fangs corroding what of old\nWore natural form; and on the brow arise\nWhite poisoned hairs, the crown of this disease.\nHe spake moreover of assailing fiends\nEmpowered to quit on me my father's blood,\nWreaking their wrath on me, what time in night\nBeneath shut lids the spirit's eye sees clear.\nThe dart that flies in darkness, sped from hell\nBy spirits of the murdered dead who call\nUnto their kin for vengeance, formless fear,\nThe night-tide's visitant, and madness' curse\nShould drive and rack me; and my tortured frame\nShould be chased forth from man's community\nAs with the brazen scorpions of the scourge.\nFor me and such as me no lustral bowl\nShould stand, no spilth of wine be poured to God\nFor me, and wrath unseen of my dead sire\nShould drive me from the shrine; no man should dare\nTo take me to his hearth, nor dwell with me:\nSlow, friendless, cursed of all should be mine end,\nAnd pitiless horror wind me for the grave.\nThis spake the god-this dare I disobey?\nYea, though I dared, the deed must yet be done;\nFor to that end diverse desires combine,-\nThe god's behest, deep grief for him who died,\nAnd last, the grievous blank of wealth despoiled-\nAll these weigh on me, urge that Argive men,\nMinions of valour, who with soul of fire\nDid make of fenced Troy a ruinous heap,\nBe not left slaves to two and each a woman!\nFor he, the man, wears woman's heart; if not,\nSoon shall he know, confronted by a man. (ORESTES, ELECTRA, and the\nCHORUS gather round the tomb of Agamemnon. The following lines are\nchanted responsively.)\nCHORUS Mighty Fates, on you we call!\nBid the will of Zeus ordain\nPower to those, to whom again\nJustice turns with hand and aid!\nGrievous was the prayer one made\nGrievous let the answer fall!\nWhere the mighty doom is set,\nJustice claims aloud her debt.\nWho in blood hath dipped the steel,\nDeep in blood her meed shall feel\nList an immemorial word-\nWhosoe'er shall take the sword\nShall perish by the sword.\nORESTES Father, unblest in death, O father mine!\nWhat breath of word or deed\nCan I waft on thee from this far confine\nUnto thy lowly bed,-\nWaft upon thee, in midst of darkness lying,\nHope's counter-gleam of fire?\nYet the loud dirge of praise brings grace undying\nUnto each parted sire.\nCHORUS O child, the spirit of the dead,\nAltho' upon his flesh have fed\nThe grim teeth of the flame,\nIs quelled not; after many days\nThe sting of wrath his soul shall raise,\nA vengeance to reclaim!\nTo the dead rings loud our cry-\nPlain the living's treachery-\nSwelling, shrilling, urged on high,\nThe vengeful dirge, for parents slain,\nShall strive and shall attain.\nELECTRA Hear me too, even me, O father, hear!\nNot by one child alone these groans, these tears are shed\nUpon thy sepulchre.\nEach, each, where thou art lowly laid,\nStands, a suppliant, homeless made:\nAh, and all is full of ill,\nComfort is there none to say!\nStrive and wrestle as we may,\nStill stands doom invincible.\nCHORUS Nay, if so he will, the god\nStill our tears to joy can turn.\nHe can bid a triumph-ode\nDrown the dirge beside this urn;\nHe to kingly halls can greet\nThe child restored, the homeward-guided feet.\nORESTES Ah my father! hadst thou lain\nUnder Ilion's wall,\nBy some Lycian spearman slain,\nThou hadst left in this thine hall\nHonour; thou hadst wrought for us\nFame and life most glorious.\nOver-seas if thou hadst died,\nHeavily had stood thy tomb,\nHeaped on high; but, quenched in pride,\nGrief were light unto thy home.\nCHORUS Loved and honoured hadst thou lain\nBy the dead that nobly fell,\nIn the under-world again,\nWhere are throned the kings of hell,\nFull of sway, adorable\nThou hadst stood at their right hand-\nThou that wert, in mortal land,\nBy Fate's ordinance and law,\nKing of kings who bear the crown\nAnd the staff, to which in awe\nMortal men bow down.\nELECTRA Nay, O father, I were fain\nOther fate had fallen on thee.\nIll it were if thou hadst lain\nOne among the common slain,\nFallen by Scamander's side-\nThose who slew thee there should be!\nThen, untouched by slavery,\nWe had heard as from afar\nDeaths of those who should have died\n'Mid the chance of war.\nCHORUS O child, forbear! things all too high thou sayest.\nEasy, but vain, thy cry!\nA boon above all gold is that thou prayest,\nAn unreached destiny,\nAs of the blessed land that far aloof\nBeyond the north wind lies;\nYet doth your double prayer ring loud reproof;\nA double scourge of sighs\nAwakes the dead; th' avengers rise, though late;\nBlood stains the guilty pride\nOf the accursed who rule on earth, and Fate\nStands on the children's side.\nELECTRA That hath sped thro' mine ear, like a shaft from a bow!\nZeus, Zeus! it is thou who dost send from below\nA doom on the desperate ere long\nOn a mother a father shall visit his wrong.\nCHORUS Be it mine to upraise thro' the reek of the pyre\nThe chant of delight, while the funeral fire\nDevoureth the corpse of a man that is slain\nAnd a woman laid low!\nFor who bids me conceal it! out-rending control,\nBlows ever the stern blast of hate thro' my soul,\nAnd before me a vision of wrath and of bane\nFlits and waves to and fro.\nORESTES Zeus, thou alone to us art parent now.\nSmite with a rending blow\nUpon their heads, and bid the land be well:\nSet right where wrong hath stood; and thou give ear,\nO Earth, unto my prayer-\nYea, hear O mother Earth, and monarchy of hell\nCHORUS Nay, the law is sternly set-\nBlood-drops shed upon the ground\nPlead for other bloodshed yet;\nLoud the call of death doth sound,\nCalling guilt of olden time,\nA Fury, crowning crime with crime.\nELECTRA Where, where are ye, avenging powers,\nPuissant Furies of the slain?\nBehold the relics of the race\nOf Atreus, thrust from pride of place!\nO Zeus, what borne henceforth is ours,\nWhat refuge to attain?\nCHORUS Lo, at your wail my heart throbs, wildly stirred;\nNow am I lorn with sadness,\nDarkened in all my soul, to hear your sorrow's word\nAnon to hope, the seat of strength, I rise,-\nShe, thrusting grief away, lifts up mine eyes\nTo the new dawn of gladness.\nORESTES Skills it to tell of aught save wrong on wrong,\nWrought by our mother's deed?\nThough now she fawn for pardon, sternly strong\nStandeth our wrath, and will nor hear nor heed.\nHer children's soul is wolfish, born from hers,\nAnd softens not by prayers.\nCHORUS I dealt upon my breast the blow\nThat Asian mourning women know;\nWails from-my breast the fun'ral cry,\nThe Cissian weeping melody;\nStretched rendingly forth, to tatter and tear,\nMy clenched hands wander, here and there,\nFrom head to breast; distraught with blows\nThrob dizzily my brows.\nELECTRA Aweless in hate, O mother, sternly brave!\nAs in a foeman's grave\nThou laid'st in earth a king, but to the bier\nNo citizen drew nears-\nThy husband, thine, yet for his obsequies,\nThou bad'st no wail arise!\nORESTES Alas, the shameful burial thou dost speak!\nYet I the vengeance of his shame will wreak-\nThat do the gods command!\nThat shall achieve mine hand!\nGrant me to thrust her life away, and\nWill dare to die!\nCHORUS List thou the deed! Hewn down and foully torn,\nHe to the tomb was borne;\nYea, by her hand, the deed who wrought,\nWith like dishonour to the grave was brought,\nAnd by her hand she strove, with strong desire,\nThy life to crush, O child, by murder of thy sire:\nBethink thee, hearing, of the shame, the pain\nWherewith that sire was slain!\nELECTRA Yea, such was the doom of my sire; well-a-day,\nI was thrust from his side,-\nAs a dog from the chamber they thrust me away,\nAnd in place of my laughter rose sobbing and tears,\nAs in darkness I lay.\nO father, if this word can pass to thine ears,\nTo thy soul let it reach and abide!\nCHORUS Let it pass, let it pierce, through the sense of thine ear,\nTo thy soul, where in silence it waiteth the hour!\nThe past is accomplished; but rouse thee to hear\nWhat the future prepareth; awake and appear,\nOur champion, in wrath and in power!\nORESTES O father, to thy loved ones come in aid.\nELECTRA With tears I call on thee.\nCHORUS Listen and rise to light!\nBe thou with us, be thou against the foe!\nSwiftly this cry arises-even so\nPray we, the loyal band, as we have prayed!\nORESTES Let their might meet with mine, and their right with my right.\nELECTRA O ye Gods, it is yours to decree.\nCHORUS Ye call unto the dead; I quake to hear.\nFate is ordained of old, and shall fulfil your prayer.\nELECTRA Alas, the inborn curse that haunts our home,\nOf Ate's bloodstained scourge the tuneless sound!\nAlas, the deep insufferable doom,\nThe stanchless wound!\nORESTES It shall be stanched, the task is ours,-\nNot by a stranger's, but by kindred hand,\nShall be chased forth the blood-fiend of our land.\nBe this our spoken spell, to call Earth's nether powers!\nCHORUS Lords of a dark eternity,\nTo you has come the children's cry,\nSend up from hell, fulfil your aid\nTo them who prayed. (The chant is concluded.)\nORESTES O father, murdered in unkingly wise,\nFulfil my prayer, grant me thine halls to sway.\nELECTRA To me, too, grant this boon-dark death to deal\nUnto Aegisthus, and to 'scape my doom.\nORESTES So shall the rightful feasts that mortals pay\nBe set for thee; else, not for thee shall rise\nThe scented reek of altars fed with flesh,\nBut thou shalt lie dishonoured: hear thou me!\nELECTRA I too, from my full heritage restored,\nWill pour the lustral streams, what time I pass\nForth as a bride from these paternal halls,\nAnd honour first, beyond all graves, thy tomb.\nORESTES Earth, send my sire to fend me in the fight!\nELECTRA Give fair-faced fortune, O Persephone!\nORESTES Bethink thee, father, in the laver slain-\nELECTRA Bethink thee of the net they handselled for thee!\nORESTES Bonds not of brass ensnared thee, father mine.\nELECTRA Yea, the ill craft of an enfolding robe.\nORESTES By this our bitter speech arise, O sire!\nELECTRA Raise thou thine head at love's last, dearest call!\nORESTES Yea, speed forth Right to aid thy kinsmen's cause;\nGrip for grip, let them grasp the foe, if thou\nWillest in triumph to forget thy fall.\nELECTRA Hear me, O father, once again hear me.\nLo! at thy tomb, two fledglings of thy brood-\nA man-child and a maid; hold them in ruth,\nNor wipe them out, the last of Pelops' line.\nFor while they live, thou livest from the dead;\nChildren are memory's voices, and preserve\nThe dead from wholly dying: as a net\nIs ever by the buoyant corks upheld,\nWhich save the flax-mesh, in the depth submerged.\nListen, this wail of ours doth rise for thee,\nAnd as thou heedest it thyself art saved.\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS In sooth, a blameless prayer ye spake at length-\nThe tomb's requital for its dirge denied:\nNow, for the rest, as thou art fixed to do,\nTake fortune by the hand and work thy will.\nORESTES The doom is set; and yet I fain would ask-\nNot swerving from the course of my resolve,-\nWherefore she sent these offerings, and why\nShe softens all too late her cureless deed?\nAn idle boon it was, to send them here\nUnto the dead who recks not of such gifts.\nI cannot guess her thought, but well I ween\nSuch gifts are skilless to atone such crime.\nBe blood once spilled, an idle strife he strives\nWho seeks with other wealth or wine outpoured\nTo atone the deed. So stands the word, nor fails.\nYet would I know her thought; speak, if thou knowest.\nLEADER I know it, son; for at her side I stood.\n'Twas the night-wandering terror of a dream\nThat flung her shivering from her couch, and bade her-\nHer, the accursed of God-these offerings send.\nORESTES Heard ye the dream, to tell it forth aright?\nLEADER Yea, from herself; her womb a serpent bare.\nORESTES What then the sum and issue of the tale?\nLEADER Even as a swaddled child, she lull'd the thing.\nORESTES What suckling craved the creature, born full-fanged?\nLEADER Yet in her dreams she proffered it the breast.\nORESTES How? did the hateful thing not bite her teat?\nLEADER Yea, and sucked forth a blood-gout in the milk.\nORESTES Not vain this dream-it bodes a man's revenge.\nLEADER Then out of sleep she started with a cry,\nAnd thro' the palace for their mistress' aid\nFull many lamps, that erst lay blind with night,\nFlared into light; then, even as mourners use,\nShe sends these offerings, in hope to win\nA cure to cleave and sunder sin from doom.\nORESTES Earth and my father's grave, to you I call-\nGive this her dream fulfilment, and thro' me.\nI read it in each part coincident\nWith what shall be; for mark, that serpent sprang\nFrom the same womb as I, in swaddling bands\nBy the same hands was swathed, lipped the same breast,\nAnd sucking forth the same sweet mother's-milk\nInfused a clot of blood; and in alarm\nShe cried upon her wound the cry of pain.\nThe rede is clear: the thing of dread she nursed,\nThe death of blood she dies; and I, 'tis I,\nIn semblance of a serpent, that must slay her.\nThou art my seer, and thus I read the dream.\nLEADER So do; yet ere thou doest, speak to us,\nBidding some act, some, by not acting, aid.\nORESTES Brief my command: I bid my sister pass\nIn silence to the house, and all I bid\nThis my design with wariness conceal,\nThat they who did by craft a chieftain slay\nMay by like craft and in like noose be talen,\nDying the death which Loxias foretold-\nApollo, king and prophet undisproved.\nI with this warrior Pylades will come\nIn likeness of a stranger, full equipt\nAs travellers come, and at the palace gates\nWill stand, as stranger yet in friendship's bond\nUnto this house allied; and each of us\nWill speak the tongue that round Parnassus sounds,\nFeigning such speech as Phocian voices use.\nAnd what if none of those that tend the gates\nShall welcome us with gladness, since the house\nWith ills divine is baunted? If this hap,\nWe at the gate will bide, till, passing by,\nSome townsman make conjecture and proclaim,\nHow? is Aegisthus here, and knowingly\nKeeps suppliants aloof, by bolt and bar?\nThen shall I win my way; and if I cross\nThe threshold of the gate, the palace' guard,\nAnd find him throned where once my father sat-\nOr if he come anon, and face to face\nConfronting, drop his eyes from mine-I swear\nHe shall not utter, Who art thou and whence?\nEre my steel leap, and compassed round with death\nLow he shall lie: and thus, full-fed with doom,\nThe Fury of the house shall drain once more\nA deep third draught of rich unmingled blood.\nBut thou, O sister, look that all within\nBe well prepared to give these things event.\nAnd ye-I say 'twere well to bear a tongue\nFull of fair silence and of fitting speech\nAs each beseems the time; and last, do thou,\nHermes the warder-god, keep watch and ward,\nAnd guide to victory my striving sword. (ORESTES, PYLADES, and ELECTRA\ndepart.)\nCHORUS (singing, strophe 1)\nMany and marvellous the things of fear\nEarth's breast doth bear;\nAnd the sea's lap with many monsters teems,\nAnd windy levin-bolts and meteor gleams\nBreed many deadly things-\nUnknown and flying forms, with fear upon their wings,\nAnd in their tread is death;\nAnd rushing whirlwinds, of whose blasting breath\nMan's tongue can tell.\n(antistrophe 1)\nBut who can tell aright the fiercer thing,\nThe aweless soul, within man's breast inhabiting?\nWho tell how, passion-fraught and love-distraught,\nThe woman's eager, craving thought\nDoth wed mankind to woe and ruin fell?\nYea, how the loveless love that doth posses\nThe woman, even as the lioness,\nDoth rend and wrest apart, with eager strife,\nThe link of wedded life?\n(strophe 2)\nLet him be the witness, whose thought is not borne on light wings\nthro' the air,\nBut abideth with knowledge, what thing was wrought by Althea's despair;\nFor she marr'd the life-grace of her son, with ill counsel rekindled\nthe flame\nThat was quenched as it glowed on the brand, what time from his mother\nhe came,\nWith the cry of a new-born child; and the brand from the burning she\nwon,\nFor the Fates had foretold it coeval, in life and in death, with her\nson.\n(antistrophe 2)\nYea, and man's hate tells of another, even Scylla of murderous guile,\nWho slew for an enemy's sake her father, won o'er by the wile\nAnd the gifts of Cretan Minos, the gauds of the high-wrought gold;\nFor she clipped from her father's head the lock that should never\nwax old,\nAs he breathed in the silence of sleep, and knew not her craft and\nher crime-\nBut Hermes, the guard of the dead, doth grasp her, in fulness of time.\n(strophe 3)\nAnd since of the crimes of the cruel I tell, let my singing record\nThe bitter wedlock and loveless, the curse on these halls outpoured,\nThe crafty device of a woman, whereby did a chieftain fall,\nA warrior stern in his wrath, the fear of his enemies all,-\nA song of dishonour, untimely! and cold is the hearth that was warm,\nAnd ruled by the cowardly spear, the woman's unwomanly arm.\n(antistrophe 3)\nBut the summit and crown of all crimes is that which in Lemnos befell;\nA woe and a mourning it is, a shame and a spitting to tell;\nAnd he that in after time doth speak of his deadliest thought,\nDoth say, It is like to the deed that of old time in Lemnos was wrought;\nAnd loathed of men were the doers, and perished, they and their seed,\nFor the gods brought hate upon them; none loveth the impious deed.\n(strophe 4)\nIt is well of these tales to tell; for the sword in the grasp of\nRight\nWith a cleaving, a piercing blow to the innermost heart doth smite,\nAnd the deed unlawfully done is not trodden down nor forgot,\nWhen the sinner out-steppeth the law and heedeth the high God not;\n(antistrophe 4)\nBut justice hath planted the anvil, and Destiny forgeth the sword\nThat shall smite in her chosen time; by her is the child restored;\nAnd, darkly devising, the Fiend of the house, world-cursed, will repay\nThe price of the blood of the slain, that was shed in the bygone day.\n(The scene now is before the palace. ORESTES and PYLADES enter, still\ndressed as travellers.)\nORESTES (knocking at the palace gate) What ho! slave, ho! I smite\nthe palace gate\nIn vain, it seems; what ho, attend within,-\nOnce more, attend; come forth and ope the halls,\nIf yet Aegisthus holds them hospitable.\nSLAVE (from within) Anon, anon! (Opens the door) Speak, from what\nland art thou, and sent from whom?\nORESTES Go, tell to them who rule the palace-halls,\nSince 'tis to them I come with tidings new-\nDelay not-Night's dark car is speeding on,\nAnd time is now for wayfarers to cast\nAnchor in haven, wheresoe'er a house\nDoth welcome strangers-that there now come forth\nSome one who holds authority within-\nThe queen, or, if some man, more seemly were it;\nFor when man standeth face to face with man,\nNo stammering modesty confounds their speech,\nBut each to each doth tell his meaning clear. (CLYTEMNESTRA comes\nout of the palace.)\nCLYTEMNESTRA Speak on, O strangers: have ye need of aught?\nHere is whate'er beseems a house like this-\nWarm bath and bed, tired Nature's soft restorer,\nAnd courteous eyes to greet you; and if aught\nOf graver import needeth act as well,\nThat, as man's charge, I to a man will tell.\nORESTES A Daulian man am I, from Phocis bound,\nAnd as with mine own travel-scrip self-laden\nI went toward Argos, parting hitherward\nWith travelling foot, there did encounter me\nOne whom I knew not and who knew not me,\nBut asked my purposed way nor hid his own,\nAnd, as we talked together, told his name-\nStrophius of Phocis; then he said, \"Good sir,\nSince in all case thou art to Argos bound,\nForget not this my message, heed it well,\nTell to his own, Orestes is no more.\nAnd-whatsoe'er his kinsfolk shall resolve.\nWhether to bear his dust unto his home,\nOr lay him here, in death as erst in life\nExiled for aye, a child of banishment-\nBring me their hest, upon thy backward road;\nFor now in brazen compass of an urn\nHis ashes lie, their dues of weeping paid.\"\nSo much I heard, and so much tell to thee,\nNot knowing if I speak unto his kin\nWho rule his home; but well, I deem, it were,\nSuch news should earliest reach a parent's ear.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Ah woe is me! thy word our ruin tells;\nFrom roof-tree unto base are we despoiled.-\nO thou whom nevermore we wrestle down,\nThou Fury of this home, how oft and oft\nThou dost descry what far aloof is laid,\nYea, from afar dost bend th' unerring bow\nAnd rendest from my wretchedness its friends;\nAs now Orestes-who, a brief while since,\nSafe from the mire of death stood warily,-\nWas the home's hope to cure th' exulting wrong;\nNow thou ordainest, Let the ill abide.\nORESTES To host and hostess thus with fortune blest,\nLief had I come with better news to bear\nUnto your greeting and acquaintanceship;\nFor what goodwill lies deeper than the bond\nOf guest and host? and wrong abhorred it were,\nAs well I deem, if I, who pledged my faith\nTo one, and greetings from the other had,\nBore not aright the tidings 'twixt the twain.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Whate'er thy news, thou shalt not welcome lack,\nMeet and deserved, nor scant our grace shall be.\nHadst thou thyself not come, such tale to tell,\nAnother, sure, had borne it to our ears.\nBut lo! the hour is here when travelling guests,\nFresh from the daylong labour of the road,\nShould win their rightful due. (To the slave) Take him within\nTo the man-chamber's hospitable rest-\nHim and these fellow-farers at his side;\nGive them such guest-right as beseems our halls;\nI bid thee do as thou shalt answer for it,\nAnd I unto the prince who rules our home\nWill tell the tale, and, since we lack not friends,\nWith them will counsel how this hap to bear. (CLYTEMNESTRA goes back\ninto the palace. ORESTES and PYLADES are conducted to the guest quarters.)\nCHORUS (singing) So be it done-\nSister-servants, when draws nigh\nTime for us aloud to cry\nOrestes and his victory?\nO holy earth and holy tomb\nOver the grave-pit heaped on high,\nWhere low doth Agamemnon lie,\nThe king of ships, the army's lord!\nNow is the hour-give ear and come,\nFor now doth Craft her aid afford,\nAnd Hermes, guard of shades in hell,\nStands o'er their strife, to sentinel\nThe dooming of the sword.\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS I wot the stranger worketh woe within-\nFor lo! I see come forth, suffused with tears,\nOrestes' nurse. (The NURSE enters from the palace.) What ho, Kilissa-thou\nBeyond the doors? Where goest thou? Methinks\nSome grief unbidden walketh at thy side.\nNURSE My mistress bids me, with what speed I may,\nCall in Aegisthus to the stranger guests,\nThat he may come, and stinding face to face,\nA man with men, way thus more clearly learn\nThis rumour new. Thus speaking, to her slaves\nLaughter for what is wrought-to her desire\nToo well; but ill, ill, ill besets the house,\nBrought by the tale these guests have told so clear.\nAnd he, God wot, will gladden all his heart\nHearing this rumour. Woe and well-a-day!\nThe bitter mingled cup of ancient woes,\nHard to be borne, that here in Atreus' house\nBefell, was grievous to mine inmost heart,\nBut never yet did I endure such pain.\nAll else I bore with set soul patiently;\nBut now-alack, alack!--Orestes dear,\nThe day and night-long travail of my soul\nWhom from his mother's womb, a new-born child,\nI clasped and cherished! Many a time and oft\nToilsome and profitless my service was,\nWhen his shrill outcry called me from my couch!\nFor the young child, before the sense is born,\nHath but a dumb thing's life, must needs be nursed\nAs its own nature bids. The swaddled thing\nHath nought of speech, whate'er discomfort come,-\nHunger or thirst or lower weakling need,-\nFor the babe's stomach works its own relief.\nWhich knowing well before, yet oft surprised,\n'Twas mine to cleanse the swaddling clothes-poor\nWas nurse to tend and fuller to make white:\nTwo works in one, two handicrafts I took,\nWhen in mine arms the father laid the boy.\nAnd now he's dead-alack and well-a-day!\nYet must I go to him whose wrongful power\nPollutes this house-fair tidings these to him!\nLEADER Say then, with what array she bids him come?\nNURSE What say'st thou! Speak. more clearly for mine ear.\nLEADER Bids she bring henchmen, or to come alone?\nNURSE She bids him bring a spear-armed body-guard.\nNay, tell not that unto our loathed lord,\nBut speed to him, put on the mien of joy,\nSay, Come alone, fear nought, the news is good:\nA bearer can tell straight a twisted tale.\nNURSE Does then thy mind in this new tale find joy?\nLEADER What if Zeus bid our ill wind veer to fair?\nNURSE And how? the home's hope with Orestes dies.\nLEADER Not yet-a seer, though feeble, this might see.\nNURSE What say'st thou? Know'st thou aught, this tale belying?\nLEADER Go, tell the news to him, perform thine hest,-\nWhat the gods will, themselves can well provide.\nNURSE Well, I will go, herein obeying thee;\nAnd luck fall fair, with favour sent from heaven. (She goes out.)\nCHORUS (singing, strophe 1)\nZeus, sire of them who on Olympus dwell,\nHear thou, O hear my prayer!\nGrant to my rightful lords to prosper well\nEven as their zeal is fair!\nFor right, for right goes up aloud my cry-\nZeus, aid him, stand anigh!\n(refrain 1)\nInto his father's hall he goes\nTo smite his father's foes.\nBid him prevail by thee on throne of triumph set,\nTwice, yea and thrice with joy shall he acquit the debt.\n(antistrophe 1)\nBethink thee, the young steed, the orphan foal\nOf sire beloved by thee, unto the car\nOf doom is harnessed fast.\nGuide him aright, plant firm a lasting goal,\nSpeed thou his pace,-O that no chance may mar\nThe homeward course, the last!\n(strophe 2)\nAnd ye who dwell within the inner chamber\nWhere shines the stored joy of gold-\nGods of one heart, O hear ye, and remember;\nUp and avenge the blood shed forth of old,\nWith sudden rightful blow;\nThen let the old curse die, nor be renewed\nWith progeny of blood,-\nOnce more, and not again, be latter guilt laid low!\n(refrain 2)\nO thou who dwell'st in Delphi's mighty cave,\nGrant us to see this home once more restored\nUnto its rightful lord!\nLet it look forth, from veils of death, with joyous eye\nUnto the dawning light of liberty;\n(antistrophe 2)\nAnd Hermes, Maia's child, lend hand to save,\nWilling the right, and guide\nOur state with Fortune's breeze adown the favouring tide.\nWhate'er in darkness hidden lies,\nHe utters at his will;\nHe at his will throws darkness on our eyes,\nBy night and eke by day inscrutable.\n(strophe 3)\nThen, then shall wealth atone\nThe ills that here were done.\nThen, then will we unbind,\nFling free on wafting wind\nOf joy, the woman's voice that waileth now\nIn piercing accents for a chief laid low;\n(refrain 3)\nAnd this our song shall be-\nHail to the commonwealth restored!\nHail to the freedom won to me!\nAll hail! for doom hath passed from him, my well-loved lord!\n(antistrophe 3)\nAnd thou, O child, when Time and Chance agree,\nUp to the deed that for thy sire is done!\nAnd if she wail unto thee, Spare, O son-\nCry, Aid, O father-and achieve the deed,\nThe horror of man's tongue, the gods' great need!\nHold in thy breast such heart as Perseus had,\nThe bitter woe work forth,\nAppease the summons of the dead,\nThe wrath of friends on earth;\nYea, set within a sign of blood and doom,\nAnd do to utter death him that polilites thy home. (AEGISTHUS enters\nalone.)\nAEGISTHUS Hither and not unsummoned have I come;\nFor a new rumour, borne by stranger men\nArriving hither, hath attained mine ears,\nOf hap unwished-for, even Orestes' death.\nThis were new sorrow, a blood-bolter'd load\nLaid on the house that doth already bow\nBeneath a former wound that festers deep.\nDare I opine these words have truth and life?\nOr are they tales, of woman's terror born,\nThat fly in the void air, and die disproved?\nCanst thou tell aught, and prove it to my soul?\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS What we have heard, we heard; go thou within\nThyself to ask the strangers of their tale.\nStrengthless are tidings, thro' another heard;\nQuestion is his, to whom the tale is brought.\nAEGISTHUS I too will meet and test the messenger,\nWhether himself stood witness of the death,\nOr tells it merely from dim rumour learnt:\nNone shall cheat me, whose soul hath watchful eyes. (He goes into\nthe palace.)\nCHORUS (singing) Zeus, Zeus! what word to me is given?\nWhat cry or prayer, invoking heaven,\nShall first by me be uttered?\nWhat speech of craft-nor all revealing,\nNor all too warily concealing-\nEnding my speech, shall aid the deed?\nFor lo! in readiness is laid\nThe dark emprise, the rending blade;\nBlood-dropping daggers shall achieve\nThe dateless doom of Atreus' name,\nOr-kindling torch and joyful flame\nIn sign of new-won liberty-\nOnce more Orestes shall retrieve\nHis father's wealth, and, throned on high,\nShall hold the city's fealty.\nSo mighty is the grasp whereby,\nHeaven-holpen, he shall trip and throw,\nUnseconded, a double foe.\nHo for the victory! (A loud cry is heard within.)\nVOICE OF AEGISTHUS Help, help, alas!\nCHORUS Ho there, ho I how is't within?\nIs't done? is't over? Stand we here aloof\nWhile it is wrought, that guiltless we may seem\nOf this dark deed; with death is strife fulfilled. (An ATTENDANT\nenters from the palace.)\nATTENDANT O woe, O woe, my lord is done to death!\nWoe, woe, and woe again, Aegisthus gone!\nHasten, fling wide the doors, unloose the bolts\nOf the queen's chamber. O for some young strength\nTo match the need! but aid availeth nought\nTo him laid low for ever. Help, help, help\nSure to deaf ears I shout, and call in vain\nTo slumber ineffectual. What ho!\nThe queen! how fareth Clytemnestra's self?\nHer neck too, hers, is close upon the steel,\nAnd soon shall sing, hewn thro' as justice wills. (CLYTEMNESTRA enters.)\nCLYTEMNESTRA What ails thee, raising this ado for us?\nATTENDANT I say the dead are come to slay the living.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Alack, I read thy riddles all too clear-\nWe slew by craft and by like craft shall die.\nSwift, bring the axe that slew my lord of old;\nI'll know anon or death or victory-\nSo stands the curse, so I confront it here. (ORESTES rushes from\nthe palace; his sword dripping with blood. PYLADES is with him.)\nORESTES Thee too I seek: for him what's done will serve.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Woe, woe! Aegisthus, spouse and champion, slain!\nORESTES What, lov'st the man? then in his grave lie down,\nBe his in death, desert him nevermore!\nCLYTEMNESTRA Stay, child, and fear to strike. O son, this breast\nPillowed thine head full oft, while, drowsed with sleep,\nThy toothless mouth drew mother's milk from me.\nORESTES Can I my mother spare? speak, Pylades.\nPYLADES Where then would fall the hest Apollo gave\nAt Delphi, where the solemn compact sworn?\nChoose thou the hate of all men, not of gods.\nORESTES Thou dost prevail; I hold thy counsel good. (To CLYTEMNESTRA)\nFollow; I will to slay thee at his side.\nWith him whom in his life thou loved'st more\nThan Agamemnon, sleep in death, the meed\nFor hate where love, and love where hate was due!\nCLYTEMNESTRA I nursed thee young; must I forego mine eld?\nORESTES Thou slew'st my father; shalt thou dwell with me?\nCLYTEMNESTRA Fate bore a share in these things, O my child\nORESTES Fate also doth provide this doom for thee.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Beware, O child, a parent's dying curse.\nORESTES A parent who did cast me out to ill!\nCLYTEMNESTRA Not cast thee out, but to a friendly home.\nORESTES Born free, I was by twofold bargain sold.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Where then the price that I received for thee?\nORESTES The price of shame; I taunt thee not more plainly.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Nay, but recount thy father's lewdness too.\nORESTES Home-keeping, chide not him who toils without.\nCLYTEMNESTRA 'Tis hard for wives to live as widows, child.\nORESTES The absent husband toils for them at home.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Thou growest fain to slay thy mother, child.\nORESTES Nay, 'tis thyself wilt slay thyself, not I.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Beware thy mother's vengeful hounds from hell.\nORESTES How shall I 'scape my father's, sparing thee?\nCLYTEMNESTRA Living, I cry as to a tomb, unheard.\nORESTES My father's fate ordains this doom for thee.\nCLYTEMNESTRA Ah me! this snake it was I bore and nursed.\nORESTES Ay, right prophetic was thy visioned fear.\nShameful thy deed was-die the death of shame! (He drives her into\nthe house before him.)\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS Lo, even for these I mourn, a double death:\nYet since Orestes, driven on by doom,\nThus crowns the height of murders manifold,\nI say, 'tis well-that not in night and death\nShould sink the eye and light of this our home.\nCHORUS (singing, strophe 1)\nThere came on Priam's race and name\nA vengeance; though it tarried long,\nWith heavy doom it came.\nCame, too, on Agamemnon's hall\nA lion-pair, twin swordsmen strong.\nAnd last, the heritage doth fall\nTo him, to whom from Pythian cave\nThe god his deepest counsel gave.\n(refrain 1)\nCry out, rejoice! our kingly hall\nHath 'scaped from ruin-ne'er again\nIts ancient wealth be wasted all\nBy two usurpers, sin-defiled-\nAn evil path of woe and bane!\n(antistrophe 1)\nOn him who dealt the dastard blow\nComes Craft, Revenge's scheming child.\nAnd hand in hand with him doth go,\nEager for fight,\nThe child of Zeus, whom men below\nCall justice, naming her aright.\nAnd on her foes her breath\nIs as the blast of death;\n(strophe 2)\nFor her the god who dwells in deep recess\nBeneath Parnassus' brow,\nSummons with loud acclaim\nTo rise, though late and lame,\nAnd come with craft that worketh righteousness.\nFor even o'er Powers divine this law is strong-\nThou shalt not serve the wrong.\n(refrain 2)\nTo that which ruleth heaven beseems it that we bow\nLo, freedom's light hath come!\nLo, now is rent away\nThe grim and curbing bit that held us dumb.\nUp to the light, ye halls I this many a day\nToo low on earth ye lay.\n(antistrophe 2)\nAnd Time, the great Accomplisher,\nShall cross the threshold, whensoe'er\nHe choose with purging hand to cleanse\nThe palace, driving all pollution thence.\nAnd fair the cast of Fortune's die\nBefore our state's new lords shall lie,\nNot as of old, but bringing fairer doom.\nLo, freedom's light hath come! (The central doors of the palace open,\ndisclosing ORESTES standing over the corpses of AEGISTHUS and CLYTEMNESTRA;\nin one hand he holds his sword, in the other the robe in which AGAMEMNON\nwas entangled and slain.)\nORESTES There lies our country's twofold tyranny,\nMy father's slayers, spoilers of my home.\nErst were they royal, sitting on the throne,\nAnd loving are they yet,-their common fate\nTells the tale truly, shows their trothplight firm.\nThey swore to work mine ill-starred father's death,\nThey swore to die together; 'tis fulfilled.\nO ye who stand, this great doom's witnesses,\nBehold this too, the dark device which bound\nMy sire unhappy to his death,-behold\nThe mesh which trapped his hands, enwound his feet\nStand round, unfold it-'tis the trammel-net\nThat wrapped a chieftain; hold it that he see,\nThe father-not my sire, but he whose eye\nIs judge of all things, the all-seeing Sun!\nLet him behold my mother's damned deed,\nThen let him stand, when need shall be to me,\nWitness that justly I have sought and slain\nMy mother; blameless was Aegisthus' doom-\nHe died the death law bids adulterers die.\nBut she who plotted this accursed thing\nTo slay her lord, by whom she bare beneath\nHer girdle once the burden of her babes,\nBeloved erewhile, now turned to hateful foes-\nWhat deem ye of her? or what venomed thing,\nSea-snake or adder, had more power than she\nTo poison with a touch the flesh unscarred?\nSo great her daring, such her impious will.\nHow name her, if I may not speak a curse?\nA lion-springe! a laver's swathing cloth,\nWrapping a dead man, twining round his feet-\nA net, a trammel, an entangling robe?\nSuch were the weapon of some strangling thief,\nThe terror of the road, a cut-purse hound-\nWith such device full many might he kill,\nFull oft exult in heat of villainy.\nNe'er have my house so cursed an indweller-\nHeaven send me, rather, childless to be slain!\nCHORUS (chanting) Woe for each desperate deed!\nWoe for the queen, with shame of life bereft!\nAnd ah, for him who still is left,\nMadness, dark blossom of a bloody seed!\nORESTES Did she the deed or not? this robe gives proof,\nImbrued with blood that bathed Aegisthus' sword:\nLook, how the spurted stain combines with time\nTo blur the many dyes that once adorned\nIts pattern manifold! I now stand here,\nMade glad, made sad with blood, exulting, wailing-\nHear, O thou woven web that slew my sire!\nI grieve for deed and death and all my home-\nVictor, pollution's damned stain for prize.\nCHORUS (chanting) Alas, that none of mortal men\nCan pass his life untouched by pain!\nBehold, one woe is here-\nAnother loometh near.\nORESTES Hark ye and learn-for what the end shall be\nFor me I know not: breaking from the curb\nMy spirit whirls me off, a conquered prey,\nBorne as a charioteer by steeds distraught\nFar from the course, and madness in my breast\nBurneth to chant its song, and leap, and rave-\nHark ye and learn, friends, ere my reason goes!\nI say that rightfully I slew my mother,\nA thing God-scorned, that foully slew my sire.\nAnd chiefest wizard of the spell that bound me\nUnto this deed I name the Pythian seer\nApollo, who foretold that if I slew,\nThe guilt of murder done should pass from me;\nBut if I spared, the fate that should be mine\nI dare not blazon forth-the bow of speech\nCan reach not to the mark, that doom to tell.\nAnd now behold me, how with branch and crown\nI pass, a suppliant made meet to go\nUnto Earth's midmost shrine, the holy ground\nOf Loxias, and that renowned light\nOf ever-burning fire, to 'scape the doom\nOf kindred murder: to no other shrine,\nSo Loxias bade, may I for refuge turn.\nBear witness, Argives, in the after time,\nHow came on me this dread fatality.\nLiving, I pass a banished wanderer hence,\nTo leave in death the memory of this cry.\nLEADER OF THE CHORUS Nay, but the deed is well; link not thy lips\nTo speech ill-starred, nor vent ill-boding words-\nWho hast to Argos her full freedom given,\nLopping two serpents' heads with timely blow.\nORESTES Look, look, alas!\nHandmaidens, see-what Gorgon shapes throng up\nDusky their robes and all their hair enwound-\nSnakes coiled with snakes-off, off,-I must away!\nLEADER Most loyal of all sons unto thy sire,\nWhat visions thus distract thee? Hold, abide;\nGreat was thy victory, and shalt thou fear?\nORESTES These are no dreams, void shapes of haunting ill,\nBut clear to sight another's hell-hounds come!\nLEADER Nay, the fresh bloodshed still imbrues thine hands,\nAnd thence distraction sinks into thy soul.\nORESTES O king Apollo-see, they swarm and throng-\nBlack blood of hatred dripping from their eyes!\nLEADER One remedy thou hast; go, touch the shrine\nOf Loxias, and rid thee of these woes.\nORESTES Ye can behold them not, but I behold them.\nUp and away! I dare abide no more. (He rushes out.)\nLEADER Farewell then as thou mayst,-the god thy friend\nGuard thee and aid with chances favouring.\nCHORUS (chanting) Behold, the storm of woe divine\nThat raves and beats on Atreus' line\nIts great third blast hath blown.\nFirst was Thyestes' loathly woe\nThe rueful feast of long ago,\nOn children's flesh, unknown.\nAnd next the kingly chief's despite,\nWhen he who led the Greeks to fight\nWas in the bath hewn down.\nAnd now the offspring of the race\nStands in the third, the saviour's place,\nTo save-or to consume?\nO whither, ere it be fulfilled,\nEre its fierce blast be hushed and stilled,\nShall blow the wind of doom?\nTHE END","title":"The Choephori","type":"page"}