Part 17 (1/2)
CHORUS
O children, saviours of your father's home, Beware ye of your words, lest one should hear And bear them, for the tongue hath l.u.s.t to tell, Unto our masters--whom G.o.d grant to me In pitchy reek of fun'ral flame to see!
ORESTES
Nay, mighty is Apollo's oracle And shall not fail me, whom it bade to pa.s.s 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 G.o.d'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 power 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 a.s.sailing 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 h.e.l.l 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 l.u.s.tral bowl Should stand, no spilth of wine be poured to G.o.d 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 G.o.d--this dare I disobey?
Yea, though I dared, the deed must yet be done; For to that end diverse desires combine,-- The G.o.d'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 for the invocation which follows_.
CHORUS
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._
ORESTES
Father, unblest in death, O father mine!
What breath of word or deed Can I waft on thee from this far confine Unto thy lowly bed,-- Waft upon thee, in midst of darkness lying, Hope's counter-gleam of fire?
Yet the loud dirge of praise brings grace undying Unto each parted sire.
CHORUS
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 Shall strive and shall attain.
ELECTRA
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.
CHORUS
Nay, if so he will, the G.o.d Still our tears to joy can turn He can bid a triumph-ode Drown the dirge beside this urn; He to kingly halls can greet The child restored, the homeward-guided feet.
ORESTES
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.