Who from my life drew life, and yet, estranged,
Forgat the breasts that suckled him, forgat
A mother’s tender nurture, fled his home,
And since that day has never seen me more,
Slandered me as the murderer of his sire
And breathed forth vengeance?—Neither night nor day
Kind slumber closed these eyes, and immanent dread
Of death each minute stretched me on the rack.
But now on this glad day, of terror rid
From him and her, a deadlier plague than he,
That vampire who was housed with me to drain
My very life blood—now, despite her threats
Methinks that I shall pass my days in peace.
Ah woe is me! now verily may I mourn
Thy fate, Orestes, when thou farest thus,
Mocked by thy mother in death! Is it not well?
Not well with thee, but it is well with him.
Hear her, Avenging Spirit of the dead
Whose ashes still are warm!
The Avenger heard
When it behoved her, and hath ruled it well.
Mock on; this is thine hour of victory.
That hour Orestes shall not end, nor thou.
End it! ’Tis we are ended and undone.
Thy coming, Sir, would merit large reward,
If thou indeed hast stopped her wagging tongue.
Then I may take my leave, if all is well.
Not so; such entertainment would reflect
On me and on thy master, my ally.
Be pleased to enter; leave this girl without
To wail her friends’ misfortunes and her own. Exeunt Clytemnestra and Aged Servant.
Seemed she to you a mother woe-begone,
Weeping and wailing for a son thus slain,
This miserable woman? No, she left us
With mocking laughter. Dearest brother mine,
Thy death was my death warrant. Woe is me!
With thee has gone my last fond hope, that thou
Wast living yet and wouldst return some day
To avenge my sire and me, unhappy me.
Now whither shall I turn, alone, bereft
Of thee and of my sire? Henceforth again
Must I be slave to those I most abhor,
My father’s murderers. Is it not well with me?
No, never will I cross their threshold more,
But at these gates will lay me down to die,
There pine away. If any in the house
Think me an eyesore, let him slay me; life
To me were misery and death a boon.
Strophe 1
Where, O Zeus, are thy bolts, O Sun-god, where is thy ray,
If with thy lightning, thy light, these things be not shown to the day?
Ah me! Ah me!
Peuchter, why weepest thou?
Woe!
Hush! No rash cry!
Thou’lt be my death.
What meanest thou?
If ye would whisper hope
That they we know for dead may be alive;
Ye trample on a bleeding heart.
Antistrophe 1
Nay, I bethink me how
The Argive seer5 was swallowed up,
Snared by a woman for a golden chain,
And now in the nether world—
Ah me!
A living soul he reigns.
Ah woe!
Aye woe! for the murderess—
Was slain.
Aye, slain.
I know, I know. A champion was raised up
To avenge the mourning ghost.
No champion for me,
The one yet left is taken, reft away.
Strophe 2
A weary, weary lot is thine.
I know it well, too well,
When life, month in month out,
Like a dark torrent flows,
Horror on horror, pain on pain.
We have watched its tearful course.
Cease then to turn it where—
What wouldst thou say?
No comfort’s left of hope
From him of royal blood,
Sprung from one stock with me.
Antistrophe 2
Death is the common lot.
To die as he died, hapless youth,
Entangled in the reins
Beneath the tramp of coursers’ hoofs!
Torture ineffable!
Yea, in a strange land far away—
Alas!
To lie untended by my hands,
Unwept, ungraced with sepulture by me!
Joy, dearest sister, sped me hitherward,
And haply with unseemly haste I ran
To bring the joyful tidings and relief
From all thy woes and weary sufferings.
And where canst thou have found a remedy
For irremediable woes like mine?
Orestes—hear it from my lips—is here,
In bodily presence, as thou see’st me now.
Art mad, poor sister, making mockery
Of thine own misery and mine withal?
I mock not, by our father’s hearth I swear it;
In very truth we have him here again.
O misery! And, prithee, from whose mouth
Hadst thou this tale so blindly credited?
I trusted to none other than myself,
The clearest proof and evidence of my eyes.
What proof, what evidence! What sight, poor girl,
Lit this illusion in thy fevered brain?
O, as thou lov’st me, listen, then decide,
My story told, if I am mad or sane.
Well, if it pleases thee to speak, speak on,
I will, and tell thee all that I have seen.
As I approached our sire’s ancestral tomb,
I noted that the barrow still was wet
With streams of milk, and round the monument
Garlands were wreathed of every flower that blows.
I marvelled much and peered around in dread
Of someone watching me; but when I found
That nothing stirred, nearer the tomb I crept;
And there upon the grave’s edge lay a lock
Of hair fresh-severed; at the sight there flashed
A dear familiar image on my soul,
Orestes; ’twas a token and a sign
From him whom most of all the world I love.
I took it in my hands and not a sound
I uttered but my eyes o’erbrimmed for joy.
I knew, I knew it then as now, for sure:
This shining treasure could be none but his.
Who else could set it there save thee or me?
And ’twas not I assuredly, nor thou;
How couldst thou, when thou mayst not leave the house
Not e’en to sacrifice? Our mother then?
When did our mother’s heart that way incline?
Could she have ’scaped our notice, had she done it?
No, from Orestes comes this offering.
Courage, dear sister. Never destiny
Ran one unbroken course. On us till now
She frowned; to-day gives promise of her smiles.
Alas! I pity thy simplicity,
Fond sister.
Are not then my tidings glad?
Thou knowst not in
