Pray that there come to them or man or god …
A judge? Or an avenger? Speak thy prayer.
Plain be thy word: one who shall slay the slayer.
But dare I? Is it no sin thus to pray?
How else? With hate thine hater to repay. Electra mounts upon the Grave Mound and makes sacrifice.
Herald most high of living and of dead,
Thou midnight Hermês, hear; and call the dread
Spirits who dwell below the Earth, my vows
To hearken and to watch my father’s house;
And Earth our Mother, who doth all things breed
And nurse, and takes again to her their seed.
And I too with thee, as I pour these streams
To wash dead hands, will call him in his dreams:
O Father, pity me; pity thine own
Orestes, and restore us to thy throne;
We are lost, we are sold like slaves: and in our stead
Lo, she hath brought thy murderer to her bed,
Aigisthos. I am like one chained alway;
Orestes wandering without house or stay;
But they are full of pride, and make turmoil
And banquet of the treasures of thy toil.
Guide thou Orestes homeward, let there be
Some chance to aid him:—Father, hark to me!
And, oh, give me a heart to understand
More than my mother, and a cleaner hand!
These prayers for us; but for our enemies
This also I speak: O Father, let there rise
Against them thine Avenger, and again
The slayer in just recompense be slain.—
Behold, I pray great evil, and I lay
These tokens down; yea, midmost as I pray
Against thine enemies I lay them—so.
Do thou to us send blessing from below
With Zeus, and Earth, and Right which conquereth all.
These be the prayers on which mine offerings fall.
Do ye set lamentation like a wreath
Round them, and cry the triumph-song of death. She proceeds with the pouring of offerings and presently finds on the tomb the Lock of Hair. The Chorus makes lamentation before the grave.
Let fall the tear9 that plashes as it dies,
Where the dead lies,
Fall on this barrèd door,
Where Good nor Evil entereth any more,
This holy, abhorrèd thing,
We turn from, praying.—Lo, the milk and wine
Are poured. Awake and hear, thou awful King;
Hear in thy darkened soul, O Master mine!
Oh, for some man of might
To aid this land, some high and visible lord
Of battle, shining bright
Against Death; the great lance
Bearing deliverance,
The back-bent Scythian bow, the hilted sword
Close-held to smite and smite!
Excitedly returning from the Grave.10
Behold, The offerings of the dust are ministered:
But counsel me. I bear another word.
Speak on. My spirit leaps for eagerness.
Cast on the tomb I found this shaven tress.
Who cast it there? What man or zonèd maid?
Methinks that is a riddle quickly read!
Thy thought is swift; and may thine elder know?
What head save mine would blazon thus its woe?
She that should mourn him is his enemy.
Musing, to herself.
Strange bird, but of one feather to mine eye …
With what? Oh, speak. Make thy comparison.
Look; think ye not ’tis wondrous like mine own?
Thy brother’s! … Sent in secret! Can it be?
’Tis like his long locks in my memory.
Orestes! Would he dare to walk this land?
Belike he sent it by another’s hand!
That calls for tears no less, if never more
His footstep may be set on Argos shore.
At my heart also bitterer than gall
A great wave beats. The iron hath passed thro’ all
My being; and the stormy drops that rise
Full unforbidden from these starvèd eyes,
Gazing upon this hair. ’Tis past belief
That any Argive tree hath shed this leaf.
And sure she shore it not who wrought his death,
My mother, godless, with no mother’s faith
Or kindness for her child.—And yet to swear
Outright that this glad laugher is the hair
Of my beloved Orestes. … Oh, I am weak
With dreaming! Had it but a voice to speak
Like some kind messenger, I had not been
This phantom tossing in the wind between
Two fancies. Either quick it would proclaim
Its hate, if from some hater’s head it came;
Or, if it were our own, with me ’twould shed
Tears for this tomb and our great father dead …
Surely they know, these gods to whom we pray,
Through what wild seas our vessel beats her way,
And, if to save us is their will, may breed
A mighty oak-trunk from a little seed … She goes back to the Tomb, searching.
Ah see, the print of feet, a second sign!
The same feet: surely they are shaped like mine.
Surely! Two separate trails of feet are there:
He and perchance some fellow traveller.
The heels; the mark of the long muscle thrown
Athwart them on the sand—just like mine own
In shape and measure. What? … Oh, all is vain;
Torment of heart and blinding of the brain!11 She buries her face in her hands. Orestes rises from his hiding-place and stands before her.
Thy prayer hath borne its fruit. Hereafter tell
The gods thy thanks, and may the end be well!
What meanest thou? What hath God done for me?
Shown thee a face which thou hast longed to see.
What face? What know’st thou of my secret heart?
Orestes’. For that name all fire thou art.
If that be so, how am I near mine end?
Here am I, Sister. Seek no closer friend.
Stranger! It is a plot thou lay’st for me!
Against mine own dear life that plot would be.
Thou mock’st me! Thou would’st laugh to hear me moan!
Who mocks thy tribulation mocks mine own.
My heart half dares foretell that thou art he …
Nay, when I face thee plain thou wilt not see!
Oh, seeing but that shorn tress of funeral hair
Thy soul took wings and seemed to hold me there;
Then peering in my steps … thou knew’st them mine,
Thy brother’s, moulded feet
