And the grave of Orestes—
Where, in secret seclusion
Of his unreveal’d tomb,
Sleeps Agamemnon’s unhappy,
Matricidal, world-fam’d,
Seven-cubit-statur’d son—
Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king,
By whose hand, at the Isthmus,
At the Fate-denied Straits,
Fell the eldest of the sons of Hercules,
Hyllus, the chief of his house.—
Brother follow’d sister
The all-wept way.
Yes; but his son’s seed, wiser-counsell’d,
Sail’d by the Fate-meant Gulf to their conquest;
Slew their enemies’ king, Tisamenus.
Wherefore accept that happier omen!
Yet shall restorer appear to the race.
Antistrophe 3
Three brothers won the field,
And to two did Destiny
Give the thrones that they conquer’d.
But the third, what delays him
From his unattain’d crown? …
Ah Pylades and Electra,
Ever faithful, untir’d,
Jealous, blood-exacting friends!
Ye lie watching for the foe of your kin,
In the passes of Delphi,
In the temple-built gorge.—
There the youngest of the band of conquerors
Perish’d, in sight of the goal.
Grandson follow’d sire
The all-wept way.
Strophe 4
Thou tellest the fate of the last
Of the three Heracleidae.
Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared’st the lot.
A king, a king was he while he liv’d,
Swaying the sceptre with predestin’d hand.
And now, minister lov’d,
Holds rule—
Strophe 5
Thou touchest the worst of my ills.
Oh had he fallen of old
At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes,
By Achaian, Arcadian spear!
Then had his sepulchre risen
On the high sea-bank, in the sight
Of either Gulf, and remain’d
All-regarded afar,
Noble memorial of worth
Of a valiant Chief, to his own.
Antistrophe 4
There rose up a cry in the streets
From the terrified people.
From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail.
A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell,
Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood:
While stood o’er him a Form—
Some Form—
Antistrophe 5
More piercing the second cry rang,
Wail’d from the palace within,
From the Children. … The Fury to them,
Fresh from their father, draws near.
Ah bloody axe! dizzy blows!
In these ears, they thunder, they ring,
These poor ears, still:—and these eyes
Night and day see them fall,
Fiery phantoms of death,
On the fair, curl’d heads of my sons.
Strophe 6
Not to thee only hath come
Sorrow, O Queen, of mankind.
Had not Electra to haunt
A palace defil’d by a death unaveng’d,
For years, in silence, devouring her heart?
But her nursling, her hope, came at last.
Thou, too, rearest in hope,
Far ’mid Arcadian hills,
Somewhere, in safety, a nursling, a light.
Yet, yet shall Zeus bring him home!
Yet shall he dawn on this land!
Strophe 7
Him in secret, in tears,
Month after month, through the slow-dragging year,
Longing, listening to, I wait, I implore.
But he comes not. What dell,
O Erymanthus! from sight
Of his mother, which of thy glades,
O Lycaeus! conceals
The happy hunter? He basks
In youth’s pure morning, nor thinks
On the blood-stain’d home of his birth.
Antistrophe 6
Give not thy heart to despair.
No lamentation can loose
Prisoners of death from the grave:
But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own,
Still rules, still watches, and numb’reth the hours
Till the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe.
Still, by Acheron stream,
Terrible Deities thron’d
Sit, and make ready the serpent, the scourge.
Still, still the Dorian boy,
Exil’d, remembers his home.
Antistrophe 7
Him if high-ruling Zeus
Bring to his mother, the rest I commit,
Willing, patient, to Zeus, to his care.
Blood I ask not. Enough
Sated, and more than enough,
Are mine eyes with blood. But if this,
O my comforters! strays
Amiss from Justice, the Gods
Forgive my folly, and work
What they will!—but to me give my son!
Strophe 8
Hear us and help us, Shade of our King!
Strophe 9
A return, O Father! give to thy boy!
Antistrophe 8
Send an avenger, Gods of the dead!
Antistrophe 9
An avenger I ask not: send me my son!
O Queen, for an avenger to appear,
Thinking that so I pray’d aright, I pray’d:
If I pray’d wrongly, I revoke the prayer.
Forgive me, maidens, if I seem too slack
In calling vengeance on a murderer’s head.
Impious I deem the alliance which he asks;
Requite him words severe, for seeming kind;
And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall.
With this, to those unbrib’d inquisitors,
Who in man’s inmost bosom sit and judge,
The true avengers these, I leave his deed,
By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul.
If these condemn him, let them pass his doom!
That doom obtain effect, from Gods or men!
So be it! yet will that more solace bring
To the chaf’d heart of Justice than to mine.—
To hear another tumult in these streets,
To have another murder in these halls,
To see another mighty victim bleed—
There is small comfort for a woman here.
A woman, O my friends, has one desire—
To see secure, to live with, those she loves.
Can Vengeance give me back the murdered? no!
Can it bring home my child? Ah, if it can,
I pray the Furies’ ever-restless band,
And pray the Gods, and pray the all-seeing Sun—
“Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven,
When o’er the Arcadian forests thou art come,
And seest my stripling hunter there afield,
Put tightness in thy gold-embossèd rein,
And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back,
Throw him a pealing word of summons down,
To come, a late avenger, to the aid
Of this poor soul who bare him, and his sire.”
If this will bring him back, be this my prayer!—
But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way,
Double of issue, full of pits and snares
For all who pass, pursuers and pursued—
That way is dubious for a mother’s prayer.
Rather on thee I call, Husband belov’d!—
May Hermes, herald of the dead, convey
My words below to thee, and make thee hear.—
Bring back our son! if may be, without blood!
Install him in thy throne, still without blood!
Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee,
More fortunate than thee, more fairly judg’d!
This for our son: and for myself I pray,
Soon, having once beheld him, to descend
Into the quiet gloom, where thou art now.
These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife,
I send, and these libations pour the while. They make their offerings at the tomb. Merope then goes towards the palace.
The dead hath now his offerings duly paid.
But whither go’st thou hence, O Queen, away?
To receive Arcas, who to-day should
