Lo! the earth drinks them, to my sire they pass-
Speak thou; my breast doth palpitate with fear.
I see upon the tomb a curl new shorn.
Shorn from wnat man or what deep-girded maid?
That may he, guess who will; the sign is plain.
Let me learn this of thee; let youth prompt age.
None is there here but I, to clip such gift.
For they who thus should mourn him hate him sore.
And lo! in truth the hair exceeding like-
Like to what locks and whose? instruct me that.
Like unto those my father’s children wear.
Then is this lock Orestes’ secret gift?
Most like it is unto the curls he wore.
Yet how dared he to come unto his home?
He hath but sent it, clipt to mourn his sire.
Yea, and my heart o’erflows with gall of grief, And I am pierced as with a cleaving dart; Like to the first drops after drought, my tears Fall down at will, a bitter bursting tide, As on this lock I gaze; I cannot deem That any Argive save Orestes’ self Was ever lord thereof; nor, well I wot, Hath she, the murd’ress, shorn and laid this lock To mourn him whom she slew-my mother she, Bearing no mother’s heart, but to her race A loathing spirit, loathed itself of heaven! Yet to affirm, as utterly made sure, That this adornment cometh of the hand Of mine Orestes, brother of my soul, I may not venture, yet hope flatters fair! Ah well-a-day, that this dumb hair had voice To glad mine ears, as might a messenger, Bidding me sway no more ‘twixt fear and hope, Clearly commanding, Cast me hence away, Clipped was I from some head thou lovest not; Or, I am kin to thee, and here, as thou, I come to weep and deck our father’s grave. Aid me, ye gods! for well indeed ye know How in the gale and counter-gale of doubt, Like to the seaman’s bark, we whirl and stray. But, if God will our life, how strong shall spring, From seed how small, the new tree of our home!- Lo ye, a second sign-these footsteps, looks- Like to my own, a corresponsive print; And look, another footmark,-this his own, And that the foot of one who walked with him. Mark, how the heel and tendons’ print combine, Measured exact, with mine coincident! Alas, for doubt and anguish rack my mind.
Wherefore? what win I from the gods by prayer?
This, that thine eyes behold thy heart’s desire.
On whom of mortals know’st thou that I call?
I know thy yearning for Orestes deep.
Say then, wherein event hath crowned my prayer?
I, I am he; seek not one more akin.
Some fraud, O stranger, weavest thou for me?
Against myself I weave it, if I weave.
Ah, thou hast mind to mock me in my woel
‘Tis at mine own I mock then, mocking thine.
Speak I with thee then as Orestes’ self?
My very face thou see’st and know’st me not, And yet but now, when thou didst see the lock Shorn for my father’s grave, and when thy quest Was eager on the footprints I had made, Even I, thy brother, shaped and sized as thou, Fluttered thy spirit, as at sight of me! Lay now this ringlet whence ’twas shorn, and judge, And look upon this robe, thine own hands’ work, The shuttle-prints, the creature wrought thereon- Refrain thyself, nor prudence lose in joy, For well I wot, our kin are less than kind.
O thou that art unto our father’s home Love, grief and hope, for thee the tears ran down, For thee, the son, the saviour that should be; Trust thou thine arm and win thy father’s halls! O aspect sweet of fourfold love to me, Whom upon thee the heart’s constraint bids cal As on my father, and the claim of love From me unto my mother turns to thee, For she is very hate; to thee too turns What of my heart went out to her who died A ruthless death upon the altar-stone; And for myself I love thee-thee that wast A brother leal, sole stay of love to me. Now by thy side be strength and right, and Zeus Saviour almighty, stand to aid the twain!
Zeus, Zeus! look down on our estate and us, The orphaned brood of him, our eagle-sire, Whom to his death a fearful serpent brought, Enwinding him in coils; and we, bereft And foodless, sink with famine, all too weak To bear unto the eyrie, as he bore, Such quarry as he slew. Lo! I and she, Electra, stand before thee, fatherless, And each alike cast out and homeless made.
And if thou leave to death the brood of him Whose altar blazed for thee, whose reverence Was thine, all thine,-whence, in the after years, Shall any hand like his adorn thy shrine With sacrifice of flesh? the eaglets slain, Thou wouldst not have a messenger to bear Thine omens, once so clear, to mortal men; So, if this kingly stock be withered all, None on high festivals will fend thy shrine. Stoop thou to raise us! strong the race shall grow, Though puny now it seem, and fallen low.
Nay, mighty is Apollo’s oracle And shall not fail me, whom it bade to pass Thro’ all this peril; clear the voice rang out With many warnings, sternly threatening To my hot heart the wintry chill of pain, Unless upon the slayers of my sire I pressed for vengeance: this the god’s command- That I, in ire for home and wealth despoiled, Should with a craft like theirs the slayers slay: Else with my very life I should atone This deed undone, in many a ghastly wise. For he proclaimed unto the ears of men That offerings, poured to angry powers of death, Exude again, unless their will be done, As grim disease on those that poured them forth- As leprous ulcers mounting on the flesh And with fell fangs corroding what of old Wore natural form; and on the brow arise White poisoned hairs, the crown of this disease. He spake moreover of assailing fiends Empowered to quit on me my father’s blood, Wreaking their wrath on me, what time in night Beneath shut lids the spirit’s eye sees clear. The dart that flies in darkness, sped from hell By spirits of the murdered dead who call Unto their kin for vengeance, formless fear, The night-tide’s visitant, and madness’ curse Should drive and rack me; and my tortured frame Should be chased forth from man’s community As with the brazen scorpions of the scourge. For me and such as me no lustral bowl Should stand, no spilth of wine be poured to God For me, and wrath unseen of my dead sire Should drive me from the shrine; no man should dare To take me to his hearth, nor dwell with me: Slow, friendless, cursed of all should be mine end, And pitiless horror wind me for the grave. This spake the god-this dare I disobey? Yea, though I dared, the deed must yet be done; For to that end diverse desires combine,- The god’s behest, deep grief for him who died, And last, the grievous blank of wealth despoiled- All these weigh on me, urge that Argive men, Minions of valour, who with soul of fire Did make of fenced Troy a ruinous heap, Be not left slaves to two and each a woman! For he, the man, wears woman’s heart; if not, Soon shall he know, confronted by a man.
ORESTES, ELECTRA, and the CHORUS gather round the tomb of Agamemnon. The following lines are chanted responsively.
Mighty Fates, on you we call! Bid the will of Zeus ordain Power to those, to whom again Justice turns with hand and aid! Grievous was the prayer one made Grievous let the answer fall! Where the mighty doom is set, Justice claims aloud her debt. Who in blood hath dipped the steel, Deep in blood her meed shall feel List an immemorial word- Whosoe’er shall take the sword Shall perish by the sword.
O child, the spirit of the dead, Altho’ upon his flesh have fed The grim teeth of the flame, Is quelled not; after many days The sting of wrath his soul shall raise, A vengeance to reclaim! To the dead rings loud our cry- Plain the living’s treachery- Swelling, shrilling, urged on high, The vengeful dirge, for parents slain, Shall strive and shall attain.
Hear me too, even me, O father, hear! Not by one child alone these groans, these tears are shed Upon thy sepulchre. Each, each, where thou art lowly laid, Stands, a suppliant, homeless made: Ah, and all is full of ill, Comfort is there none to say! Strive and wrestle as we may, Still stands doom invincible.
Ah my father! hadst thou lain Under Ilion’s wall, By some Lycian spearman slain, Thou hadst left in this thine hall Honour; thou hadst wrought for us Fame and life most glorious. Over-seas if thou hadst died, Heavily had stood thy tomb, Heaped on high; but, quenched in pride, Grief were light unto thy home.
Loved and honoured hadst thou lain By the dead that nobly fell, In the under-world again, Where are throned the kings of hell, Full of sway, adorable Thou hadst stood at their right hand- Thou that wert, in mortal land, By Fate’s ordinance and law, King of kings who bear the crown And the staff, to which in awe Mortal men bow down.
O child, forbear! things all too high thou sayest. Easy, but vain, thy cry! A boon above all gold is that thou prayest, An unreached destiny, As of the blessed land that far aloof Beyond the north wind lies; Yet doth your double prayer ring loud reproof; A double scourge of sighs Awakes the dead; th’ avengers rise, though late; Blood stains the guilty pride Of the accursed who rule on earth, and Fate Stands on the children’s side.
The Choephori by Aeschylus