Antistrophe 3
Nay, would thou hadst died not ever!
Not by the Ilian Gate,
Not when the others fell
Spear-broken beside the river!
If they who wrought thee hate
Had died, it had all been well:
A strange death, full of fear,
That the folk beyond far seas
Should enquire thereof, and hear;
Not of our miseries!
My daughter, rare as gold is rare,
And blither than the skies behind
The raging of the northern wind
Are these thy prayers: for what is prayer?
Yet, be thou sure, this twofold scourge
Is heard: it pierceth to the verge
Of darkness, and your helpers now
Are wakening. These encharioted
Above us, lo, their hand is red!
Abhorrèd are they by the dead;
But none so hates as he and thou!
Strophe 4
Ah me, that word, that word16
Stabbeth my heart, as a sword!
God, God, who sendest from below
Blind vengeance in the wake
Of sin, what deed have I to do,
With hand most weak and full of woe?
’Tis for my father’s sake!
Strophe 5
May it be mine, may it be mine,
To dance about the blazing pine
Crying, crying,
“A man is slain, a woman dying!”
It hideth in my bosom’s core,
It beats its wings for death, for death,
A bitter wind that blows before
The prow, a hate that festereth,
A thing of horror, yet divine!
Antistrophe 4
Zeus of the orphan, when
Wilt lift thy hand among men?
Let the land have a sign. Be strong,
And smite the neck from the head.
I ask for right after much wrong.
Hear me, O God! Hark to my song,
Ye Princedoms of the Dead!
’Tis written: the shed drop doth crave
For new blood. Yea, the murdered cry
Of dead men shrieketh from the grave
To Her who out of sins gone by
Makes new sin, that the old may die.
Strophe 6
How? Are ye dumb, Ye Princedoms of the Dead?
O Curses of Them that perish, come hither, hither!
Look on this wreck of kings, the beaten head,
Bowed in despair, roofless, disherited!
Whither to turn, O Lord Zeus? Whither, whither?
Antistrophe 5
My heart, my heart is tossed again
To see thee yielded up to pain,
Failing, failing;
Then mist is on my eyes and wailing
About mine ears, and tears as rain.
But when once more I look on thee
With power exalted, sudden-swift
A hope doth all my burden lift,
And light, and signs of things to be.
Antistrophe 6
What best shall pierce thine ear; the wrongs she wrought,
Wrought upon us, upon us, she and none other?
Oh, fawn and smile: but the wrongs shall soften not,
Wrongs with a wolfish heart, by a wolf begot:
They see no smile, they reck not the name of Mother!
Strophe 7
With the dirge of Agbatana I beat my breast:
Like the Keeners of Kissia, I make songs of pain.
Lo, yearning of arms abundant, east and west:
Tearing they smite, again and yet again,
From above, from high; yea, God hath smitten red
This bitter bleeding bosom, this bended head.
Strophe 8
Ho, Mother! Ho, thou, Mother,
Mine enemy,17 daring all!
What burial made ye here?
His people followed not,
Mourned him not, knew him not:
Enemies bare his pall:
His wife shed no tear!
Strophe 9
All, all dishonour, so thy story telleth it!
And for that dishonour shall the woman pay,
As the gods have willed it, as my right hand willeth it!
Then Death may take me, let me only slay!
Antistrophe 9
His hands and feet, they were hacked away from him!
Yea, she that buried him, she wrought it so.
To make thy life blasted, without help or stay from him.
Thou hast it all, the defiling and shame and woe! Orestes breaks down in speechless tears.
Antistrophe 7
Thou tellest the doom he died, but I saw him not;
I was far off, dishonoured and nothing worth.
Like a dog they drove me back, and the door was shut,
And alone I poured my tears to him through the earth.
I laughed not, yet rejoiced that none saw me weep.—
Write this in thine heart, O Father; grave it deep.
Antistrophe 8
Write! Yea, and draw the word
Deep unto that still land
Where thy soul dwells in peace.
What is, thou hast this day heard;
What shall be, reach forth thine hand
And take it! Be hard, be hard
To smite and not cease!
Strophe 10
Thee, thee I call. Father, be near thine own.
I also cry thee, choked with the tears that flow.
Yea, all this band, it crieth to thee as one.
O great King, hear us. Awake thee to the sun.
Be with us against thy foe!
Antistrophe 10
The slayer shall meet the slayer, wrong smite with wrong.
O Zeus, bless thou the murder to be this day.
(Dost hear? Oh, fear is upon me and trembling strong.)
The day of Fate is old, it hath lingered long;
It cometh to them that pray.
Strophe 11
—Alas, alas, for the travail born in the race,
—Alas for the harp of Atê, whose strings run blood,
—The beaten bosom, the grief too wild to bear.
—The pain that gnaweth, and will not sink to sleep.
Antistrophe 11
—The House hath healing19 for its own bitterness;
—It is here within. None other can stay the flood;
—Through bitter striving, through hate and old despair.
—Behold the Song of the Daemons of the deep!
O Father mine, O most unkingly slain,
Grant me the lordship of thy House again.
A boon for me likewise, O Father, give;
To lay Aigisthos in his blood and live.
So men shall honour thee with wassail high;
Else without meat or
