Who is it puts upon thee this constraint?
My mother, not a mother save in name.
By blows or petty tyrannies or how?
By blows and tyrannies of every kind.
And is there none to help or stay her hand?
None; there was one, the man whose dust I hold.
Poor maid! my pity’s stirred at sight of thee.
Thou art the first who ever pitied me.
I am the first to feel a common woe.
What, canst thou be some kinsman from afar?
If these are friends who hear us, I would answer.
Yes, they are friends; thou needst not fear to speak.
Give back this urn, and then I’ll tell thee all.
Ask not so hard a thing, good sir, I pray.
Do as I bid thee; thou shalt not repent it.
O, I adjure thee, rob me not of that
The most I prize on earth.
It may not be.
Ah! woe for thee, Orestes, woe is me,
If I am not to give thee burial.
Guard well thy lips; thou hast no right to mourn.
No right to mourn a brother who is dead!
To speak of him in this wise is not meet.
What, am I so dishonoured of the dead?
Of none dishonoured: this is not thy part.
Not if Orestes’ ashes here I hold?
They are not his, though feigned to pass for his.
Where then is my unhappy brother’s grave?
There is no grave; we bury not the quick.
What sayst thou, boy?
Nothing that is not true.
He lives?
As surely as I am alive.
What, art thou he?
Look at this signet ring,
My father’s; let it witness if I lie.
O happy day!
O, happy, happy day!
Thy voice I greet!
My voice gives greeting back.
My arms embrace thee!
May they clasp me aye!
My countrywomen, dearest friends, behold
Orestes who in feigning died, and so
By feigning is alive again and safe.
We see him, daughter, and this glad surprise
Makes our eyes overflow with happy tears.
Strophe
Son of my best loved sire,
Now hast thou come, art here to find, to see
Thy heart’s desire.
E’en so; but best keep silence for a while.
What need for silence?
’Twere wise, lest someone from the house should hear.
Nay, by Queen Artemis the virgin maid,
Of women-folk I ne’er will be afraid,
Those stay-at-homes, mere cumberers of the ground,
Yet note that in the breasts of women dwells
The War-God too, as thou methinks hast found.
Ah me, ah me!
Thou wak’st a memory
Inveterate, ineflaceable,
An ache time cannot quell.
I know it too; but when the hour shall strike
Then it behoves us to recall those deeds.
Antistrophe
All time, each passing hour
Henceforward I were fain
To tell my griefs, my pain,
For late and hardly have I won free speech.
’Tis so; then forfeit not this liberty.
How forfeit it?
By speaking out of season overmuch,
But who would barter speech for silence now,
Who could be dumb,
Now that beyond all thought and hope
I’ve seen thee come?
That sight was then vouchsafed thee when the gods
First monished me to turn my steps towards home.
If a god guided thee
To seek our halls, this boon
Surpasses all before, I see
The hand of heaven.
To check thy gladness I am loth, and yet
This ecstasy of joy—it makes me fear.
O after many a weary year
Restored to glad my eyes,
Seeing my utter misery, forbear—
What is thy prayer?
Forbear to rob me of the light,
The presence of thy face.
If any dared essay it, I were wrath.
Dost thou consent?
How could I otherwise?
To Chorus.
Friends, a voice is in my ear,
That I never hoped to hear.
At the glad sound how could I
Be mute nor raise a joyous cry?
But I have thee, and the light
Of thy countenance so bright
Not e’en sorrow can eclipse,
Or still the music of those lips.
Spare me all superfluity of words—
How vile our mother, how Aegisthus drains
By waste and luxury our father’s house;
The time admits not such prolixity.
But tell me rather what will best subserve
Our present need—where we must show ourselves,
Or lie in wait, and either way confound
The mockery and triumph of our foes.
And see that when we twain are gone within
Our mother read not in thy radiant looks
Our secret; weep as overwhelmed with grief
At our feigned story; when the victory’s won
We shall have time and liberty to laugh.
Yea, as it pleaseth thee it pleases me,
Brother, for all my pleasure is thy gift,
Not mine; nor would I purchase for myself
The greatest boon that cost thee the least pang:
So should I cross the providence that guides us.
How it stands with us, doubtless thou hast heard.
Aegisthus, as thou knowest, is away;
Only our mother keeps the house, and fear not
That she will see my face lit up with smiles;
My hatred of her is too deep engrained.
Moreover, since thy coming I have wept,
-Wept for pure joy and still must weep to see
The dead alive, on one day dead and living.
lt works me strangely; if my sire appeared
In bodily presence, I should now believe it
No mocking phantom but his living self.
Thus far no common fate hath guided thee;
So lead me as thou wilt, for left alone
I had myself achieved of two things one,
A noble living or a noble death.
Hush, hush! I hear a stir within the house
As if one issued forth.
To Orestes and Pylades.
Pass in, good sirs,
Ye are sure of welcome; they within will not
Reject your gift, though bitter it may prove.
Fools! madmen! are ye weary of your lives,
Or are your natural wits too
