On him who dealt the dastard blow Comes Craft, Revenge’s scheming child. And hand in hand with him doth go, Eager for fight, The child of Zeus, whom men below Call justice, naming her aright. And on her foes her breath Is as the blast of death;
strophe 2
For her the god who dwells in deep recess Beneath Parnassus’ brow, Summons with loud acclaim To rise, though late and lame, And come with craft that worketh righteousness. For even o’er Powers divine this law is strong- Thou shalt not serve the wrong.
refrain 2
To that which ruleth heaven beseems it that we bow Lo, freedom’s light hath come! Lo, now is rent away The grim and curbing bit that held us dumb. Up to the light, ye halls I this many a day Too low on earth ye lay.
antistrophe 2
And Time, the great Accomplisher, Shall cross the threshold, whensoe’er He choose with purging hand to cleanse The palace, driving all pollution thence. And fair the cast of Fortune’s die Before our state’s new lords shall lie, Not as of old, but bringing fairer doom. Lo, freedom’s light hath come!
The central doors of the palace open, disclosing ORESTES standing over the corpses of AEGISTHUS and CLYTEMNESTRA; in one hand he holds his sword, in the other the robe in which AGAMEMNON was entangled and slain.
There lies our country’s twofold tyranny, My father’s slayers, spoilers of my home. Erst were they royal, sitting on the throne, And loving are they yet,-their common fate Tells the tale truly, shows their trothplight firm. They swore to work mine ill-starred father’s death, They swore to die together; ’tis fulfilled. O ye who stand, this great doom’s witnesses, Behold this too, the dark device which bound My sire unhappy to his death,-behold The mesh which trapped his hands, enwound his feet Stand round, unfold it-’tis the trammel-net That wrapped a chieftain; hold it that he see, The father-not my sire, but he whose eye Is judge of all things, the all-seeing Sun! Let him behold my mother’s damned deed, Then let him stand, when need shall be to me, Witness that justly I have sought and slain My mother; blameless was Aegisthus’ doom- He died the death law bids adulterers die. But she who plotted this accursed thing To slay her lord, by whom she bare beneath Her girdle once the burden of her babes, Beloved erewhile, now turned to hateful foes- What deem ye of her? or what venomed thing, Sea-snake or adder, had more power than she To poison with a touch the flesh unscarred? So great her daring, such her impious will. How name her, if I may not speak a curse? A lion-springe! a laver’s swathing cloth, Wrapping a dead man, twining round his feet- A net, a trammel, an entangling robe? Such were the weapon of some strangling thief, The terror of the road, a cut-purse hound- With such device full many might he kill, Full oft exult in heat of villainy. Ne’er have my house so cursed an indweller- Heaven send me, rather, childless to be slain!
Did she the deed or not? this robe gives proof, Imbrued with blood that bathed Aegisthus’ sword: Look, how the spurted stain combines with time To blur the many dyes that once adorned Its pattern manifold! I now stand here, Made glad, made sad with blood, exulting, wailing- Hear, O thou woven web that slew my sire! I grieve for deed and death and all my home- Victor, pollution’s damned stain for prize.
Hark ye and learn-for what the end shall be For me I know not: breaking from the curb My spirit whirls me off, a conquered prey, Borne as a charioteer by steeds distraught Far from the course, and madness in my breast Burneth to chant its song, and leap, and rave- Hark ye and learn, friends, ere my reason goes! I say that rightfully I slew my mother, A thing God-scorned, that foully slew my sire. And chiefest wizard of the spell that bound me Unto this deed I name the Pythian seer Apollo, who foretold that if I slew, The guilt of murder done should pass from me; But if I spared, the fate that should be mine I dare not blazon forth-the bow of speech Can reach not to the mark, that doom to tell. And now behold me, how with branch and crown I pass, a suppliant made meet to go Unto Earth’s midmost shrine, the holy ground Of Loxias, and that renowned light Of ever-burning fire, to ‘scape the doom Of kindred murder: to no other shrine, So Loxias bade, may I for refuge turn. Bear witness, Argives, in the after time, How came on me this dread fatality. Living, I pass a banished wanderer hence, To leave in death the memory of this cry.
Behold, the storm of woe divine That raves and beats on Atreus’ line Its great third blast hath blown. First was Thyestes’ loathly woe The rueful feast of long ago, On children’s flesh, unknown. And next the kingly chief’s despite, When he who led the Greeks to fight Was in the bath hewn down. And now the offspring of the race Stands in the third, the saviour’s place, To save-or to consume? O whither, ere it be fulfilled, Ere its fierce blast be hushed and stilled, Shall blow the wind of doom?
THE END
