Bear this, my maid, this offering of earth’s fruits,
That to our King I may uplift my prayers,
To rid me of the dread that haunts my soul.
O Phoebus, our Defender, lend an ear
To my petition; dark and veiled the words
For those who love me not, nor were it meet
To lay my whole heart bare, while she is by,
Ready to blab with her envenomed tongue
Through all the town some empty, rash report.
Darkly I pray; to my dark prayer attend!
The vision that I yesternight beheld
Of double import, if, Lycean King,
It bodes me well, fulfil it; but if ill,
May it upon my enemies recoil!
If there be some who treacherously plot
To dispossess me of my wealth and power,
Prevent them, and vouchsafe that I may rule
The house of Atreus in security,
And wield the sceptre, sharing prosperous days
With the same friends and with my children—those
By malice and blind rancour not estranged.
Grant, O Lycean Phoebus, of thy grace,
To me and mine fulfilment of my prayers.
And for those other things my heart desires,
Though unexpressed, thou as a god dost know them;
For naught is hidden from the sons of Zeus.
Good ladies, might a stranger crave to learn
If this indeed be King Aegisthus’ house?
It is, Sir; thou thyself hast guessed aright.
And am I right conjecturing that I see
His royal consort here? She looks a queen.
Indeed thou art in presence of the queen.
I greet thee, Madam, and I bear to thee
Fair news, and to Aegisthus, from a friend.
I welcome thy fair words, but first would know
Who sends thee.
Phanoteus, the Phocian,
On a grave mission.
Tell me, stranger, what.
It must be friendly coming from a friend.
Orestes’ death, to sum in brief my tale.
Me miserable! Now am I undone.
What say’st thou, man, what say’st thou? Heed not her.
I say again, Orestes is no more.
Ah me, I’m lost, ah wretched me, undone!
Attend to thine own business. To Aged Servant. Tell me, Sir,
The circumstance and manner of his death.
That was my errand, and I’ll tell thee all.
To the great festival of Greece he went,
The Delphic Games, and when the herald’s voice
Announced the opening trial, the foot race,
He stepped into the lists, a radiant form,
The admired of all beholders. Like a shaft
He sped from starting point to goal and back,
And bore the crown of glorious victory.
To speak in brief where there is much to tell,
I never heard of prowess like to his.
This much I’ll add, the judges of the games
Announced no single contest wherein he
Was not the victor, and each time glad shouts
Hailed the award—“An Argive wins, Orestes,
The son of Agamemnon, King of men,
Who led the hosts of Hellas.” So he sped.
But when some angry godhead intervenes
The mightiest man is foiled. Another day,
When at sunsetting chariots vied in speed,
He entered; many were the charioteers.
From Sparta one, and one Achaean, two
From Libya, skilled to guide the yokèd team;
The fifth in rank, with mares of Thessaly,
Orestes came, and an Aeolian sixth,
With chestnut fillies, a Megarian seventh,
The eighth, with milk-white steeds, an Aenian,
The ninth from Athens, city built by gods;
Last a Boeotian made the field of ten.
Then, as the appointed umpires signed to each
By lot his place, they ranged their chariots,
And at the trumpet’s brazen signal all
Started, all shook the reins and urged their steeds
With shouts; the whole plain echoed with a din
Of rattling cars and—the dust rose to heaven.
They drave together, all in narrow space,
And plied their goads, each keen to leave behind
The press of whirling wheels and snorting steeds,
For each man saw his car beflecked with foam
Or felt the coursers’ hot breath at his back.
Orestes, as he rounded either goal,
Steered close and shaved the pillar with his nave,
Urging his offside trace-horse, while he checked
The nearer. For a while they all sped on
Unscathed, but soon the Aenian’s hard-mouthed steeds
Bolted, and ’twixt the sixth and seventh round
’Gainst the Barcaean chariot headlong dashed.
Then on that first mishap there followed close
Shock upon shock, crash upon crash, that strewed
With wrack of cars all the Crisaean plain.
This the shrewd charioteer of Athens marked,
Slackened and drew aside, letting go by
The surge of chariots running in mid course.
Last came Orestes who had curbed his team
(He trusted to the finish), but at sight
Of the Athenian, his one rival left,
With a shrill holloa in his horses’ ears
He followed; and the two abreast raced on,
Now one, and now the other a head in front.
Thus far Orestes, ill-starred youth, had steered
Steadfast at every lap his steadfast team,
But at the last, in turning, all too soon
He loosed the left-hand rein, and ere he knew it
The axle struck against the pillar’s edge.
The axle box was shattered, and himself
Hurled o’er the chariot rail, and in his fall
Caught in the reins’ grip he was dragged along,
While his scared team dashed wildly o’er the course,
But as the crowd beheld his overthrow,
There rose a wail of pity for the youth—
His doughty deeds and his disastrous end—
Now flung to earth, now bounding to the sky
Feet uppermost. At length the charioteers
Stayed in their wild career his steeds and freed
The corpse all blood-bestained, disfigured, marred
Past recognition of his nearest friend.
Straightway the Phoceans burnt him on a pyre,
And envoys now are on their way to bring
That mighty frame shut in a little urn,
And lay his ashes in his fatherland.
Such is my tale, right piteous to tell;
But for all those who saw it with their eyes,
As I, there never was a sadder sight.
Alas, alas! our ancient masters’ line,
So it appears, hath perished root and branch.
Are these glad tidings? Rather would I say
Sad, but of profit. Ah how hard my lot
When I must look for safety to my losses.
Why, lady, why downhearted at my news?
Strange is the force of motherhood; a mother,
Whate’er her wrongs, can ne’er forget her child.
So it would seem our coming was in vain.
Nay, not in vain. How canst thou say “in vain,”
If of his death thou bringst
