strophe 2
Let him be the witness, whose thought is not borne on light wings thro’ the air,  But abideth with knowledge, what thing was wrought by Althea’s despair;  For she marr’d the life-grace of her son, with ill counsel rekindled the flame  That was quenched as it glowed on the brand, what time from his mother he came,  With the cry of a new-born child; and the brand from the burning she won,  For the Fates had foretold it coeval, in life and in death, with her son.
antistrophe 2
Yea, and man’s hate tells of another, even Scylla of murderous guile,  Who slew for an enemy’s sake her father, won o’er by the wile  And the gifts of Cretan Minos, the gauds of the high-wrought gold;  For she clipped from her father’s head the lock that should never wax old,  As he breathed in the silence of sleep, and knew not her craft and her crime-  But Hermes, the guard of the dead, doth grasp her, in fulness of time. 
strophe 3
And since of the crimes of the cruel I tell, let my singing record  The bitter wedlock and loveless, the curse on these halls outpoured,  The crafty device of a woman, whereby did a chieftain fall,  A warrior stern in his wrath, the fear of his enemies all,-  A song of dishonour, untimely! and cold is the hearth that was warm,  And ruled by the cowardly spear, the woman’s unwomanly arm.
antistrophe 3
But the summit and crown of all crimes is that which in Lemnos befell;  A woe and a mourning it is, a shame and a spitting to tell;  And he that in after time doth speak of his deadliest thought,  Doth say, It is like to the deed that of old time in Lemnos was wrought;  And loathed of men were the doers, and perished, they and their seed,  For the gods brought hate upon them; none loveth the impious deed. 
strophe 4
It is well of these tales to tell; for the sword in the grasp of  Right  With a cleaving, a piercing blow to the innermost heart doth smite,  And the deed unlawfully done is not trodden down nor forgot,  When the sinner out-steppeth the law and heedeth the high God not;  antistrophe 4 But justice hath planted the anvil, and Destiny forgeth the sword  That shall smite in her chosen time; by her is the child restored;  And, darkly devising, the Fiend of the house, world-cursed, will repay  The price of the blood of the slain, that was shed in the bygone day.
The scene now is before the palace. ORESTES and PYLADES enter, still dressed as travellers.
ORESTES knocking at the palace gate
What ho! slave, ho! I smite the palace gate  In vain, it seems; what ho, attend within,-  Once more, attend; come forth and ope the halls,  If yet Aegisthus holds them hospitable.
SLAVE from within
Anon, anon!
Opens the door
Speak, from what land art thou, and sent from whom?
ORESTES
Go, tell to them who rule the palace-halls,  Since ’tis to them I come with tidings new-  Delay not-Night’s dark car is speeding on,  And time is now for wayfarers to cast  Anchor in haven, wheresoe’er a house  Doth welcome strangers-that there now come forth  Some one who holds authority within-  The queen, or, if some man, more seemly were it;  For when man standeth face to face with man,  No stammering modesty confounds their speech,  But each to each doth tell his meaning clear.
CLYTEMNESTRA comes out of the palace.
CLYTEMNESTRA
Speak on, O strangers: have ye need of aught?  Here is whate’er beseems a house like this-  Warm bath and bed, tired Nature’s soft restorer,  And courteous eyes to greet you; and if aught  Of graver import needeth act as well,  That, as man’s charge, I to a man will tell.
ORESTES
A Daulian man am I, from Phocis bound,  And as with mine own travel-scrip self-laden  I went toward Argos, parting hitherward  With travelling foot, there did encounter me  One whom I knew not and who knew not me,  But asked my purposed way nor hid his own,  And, as we talked together, told his name-  Strophius of Phocis; then he said, “Good sir,  Since in all case thou art to Argos bound,  Forget not this my message, heed it well,  Tell to his own, Orestes is no more.  And-whatsoe’er his kinsfolk shall resolve.  Whether to bear his dust unto his home,  Or lay him here, in death as erst in life  Exiled for aye, a child of banishment-  Bring me their hest, upon thy backward road;  For now in brazen compass of an urn  His ashes lie, their dues of weeping paid.”  So much I heard, and so much tell to thee,  Not knowing if I speak unto his kin  Who rule his home; but well, I deem, it were,  Such news should earliest reach a parent’s ear.
CLYTEMNESTRA
Ah woe is me! thy word our ruin tells;  From roof-tree unto base are we despoiled.-  O thou whom nevermore we wrestle down,  Thou Fury of this home, how oft and oft  Thou dost descry what far aloof is laid,  Yea, from afar dost bend th’ unerring bow  And rendest from my wretchedness its friends;  As now Orestes-who, a brief while since,  Safe from the mire of death stood warily,-  Was the home’s hope to cure th’ exulting wrong;  Now thou ordainest, Let the ill abide.
ORESTES
To host and hostess thus with fortune blest,  Lief had I come with better news to bear  Unto your greeting and acquaintanceship;  For what goodwill lies deeper than the bond  Of guest and host? and wrong abhorred it were,  As well I deem, if I, who pledged my faith  To one, and greetings from the other had,  Bore not aright the tidings ‘twixt the twain.
CLYTEMNESTRA
Whate’er thy news, thou shalt not welcome lack,  Meet and deserved, nor scant our grace shall be.  Hadst thou thyself not come, such tale to tell,  Another, sure, had borne it to our ears.  But lo! the hour is here when travelling guests,  Fresh from the daylong labour of the road,  Should win their rightful due.
To the slave
Take him within  To the man-chamber’s hospitable rest-  Him and these fellow-farers at his side;  Give them such guest-right as beseems our halls;  I bid thee do as thou shalt answer for it,  And I unto the prince who rules our home  Will tell the tale, and, since we lack not friends,  With them will counsel how this hap to bear.
CLYTEMNESTRA goes back into the palace. ORESTES and PYLADES are conducted to the guest quarters.
CHORUS singing
So be it done-  Sister-servants, when draws nigh  Time for us aloud to cry  Orestes and his victory?  O holy earth and holy tomb  Over the grave-pit heaped on high,  Where low doth Agamemnon lie,  The king of ships, the army’s lord!  Now is the hour-give ear and come,  For now doth Craft her aid afford,  And Hermes, guard of shades in hell,  Stands o’er their strife, to sentinel  The dooming of the sword.
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
I wot the stranger worketh woe within-  For lo! I see come forth, suffused with tears,  Orestes’ nurse.
The NURSE enters from the palace.
What ho, Kilissa-thou  Beyond the doors? Where goest thou? Methinks  Some grief unbidden walketh at thy side.
NURSE
My mistress bids me, with what speed I may,  Call in Aegisthus to the stranger guests,  That he may come, and stinding face to face,  A man with men, way thus more clearly learn  This rumour new. Thus speaking, to her slaves  Laughter for what is wrought-to her desire  Too well; but ill, ill, ill besets the house,  Brought by the tale these guests have told so clear.  And he, God wot, will gladden all his heart  Hearing this rumour. Woe and well-a-day!  The bitter mingled cup of ancient woes,  Hard to be borne, that here in Atreus’ house  Befell, was grievous to mine inmost heart,  But never yet did I endure such pain.  All else I bore with set soul patiently;  But now-alack, alack!–Orestes dear,  The day and night-long travail of my soul  Whom from his mother’s womb, a new-born child,  I clasped and cherished! Many a time and oft  Toilsome and profitless my service was,  When his shrill outcry called me from my couch!  For the young child, before the sense is born,  Hath but a dumb thing’s life, must needs be nursed  As its own nature bids. The swaddled thing  Hath nought of speech, whate’er discomfort come,-  Hunger or thirst or lower weakling need,-  For the babe’s stomach works its own relief.  Which knowing well before, yet oft surprised,  ‘Twas mine to cleanse the swaddling clothes-poor  Was nurse to tend and fuller to make white:  Two works in one, two handicrafts I took,  When in mine arms the father laid the boy.  And now he’s dead-alack and well-a-day!  Yet must I go to him whose wrongful power  Pollutes this house-fair tidings these to him!
LEADER
Say then, with what array she bids him come?
NURSE
What say’st thou! Speak. more clearly for mine ear.
LEADER
Bids she bring henchmen, or to come alone?
NURSE
She bids him bring a spear-armed body-guard.  Nay, tell not that unto our loathed lord,  But speed to him, put on the mien of joy,  Say, Come alone, fear nought, the news is good:  A bearer can tell straight a twisted tale.
NURSE
Does then thy mind in this new tale find joy?
LEADER
What if Zeus bid our ill wind veer to fair?
NURSE
And how? the home’s hope with Orestes dies.
LEADER
Not yet-a seer, though feeble, this might see.
NURSE
What say’st thou? Know’st thou aught, this tale belying?
LEADER
Go, tell the news to him, perform thine hest,-  What the gods will, themselves can well provide.
NURSE
Well, I will go, herein obeying thee;  And luck fall fair, with favour sent from heaven.
She goes out.
CHORUS singing
strophe 1
Zeus, sire of them who on Olympus dwell,  Hear thou, O hear my prayer!  Grant to my rightful lords to prosper well  Even as their zeal is fair!  For right, for right goes up aloud my cry-  Zeus, aid him, stand anigh!
refrain 1
Into his father’s hall he goes  To smite his father’s foes.  Bid him prevail by thee on throne of triumph set,  Twice, yea and thrice with joy shall he acquit the debt.
antistrophe 1
Bethink thee, the young steed, the orphan foal  Of sire beloved by thee, unto the car  Of doom is harnessed fast.  Guide him aright, plant firm a lasting goal,  Speed thou his pace,-O that no chance may mar  The homeward course, the last!
The Choephori by Aeschylus