OED. O void of shame! What wickedness is this? What power will give thee refuge for such guilt?

TI. The might of truth is scatheless. I am free.

OED. Whence came the truth to thee? Not from thine art.

TI. From thee, whose rage impelled my backward tongue.

OED. Speak it once more, that I may know the drift.

TI. Was it so dark? Or wouldst thou tempt me further?

OED. I cannot say 'twas clear. Speak it again.

TI. I say thou art the murderer whom thou seekest.

OED. Again that baleful word! But thou shalt rue.

TI. Shall I add more, to aggravate thy wrath?

OED. All is but idleness. Say what thou wilt.

TI. I tell thee thou art living unawares In shameful commerce with thy near'st of blood, Ignorant of the abyss wherein thou liest.

OED. Think you to triumph in offending still?

TI. If Truth have power.

OED. She hath, but not for thee. Blind as thou art in eyes and ears and mind.

TI. O miserable reproach, which all who now Behold thee, soon shall thunder forth on thee!

OED. Nursed in unbroken night, thou canst not harm Or me, or any man who seeth the day.

TI. No, not from me proceeds thy fall; the God, Who cares for this, is able to perform it.

OED. Came this device from Creon or thyself?

TI. Not Creon: thou art thy sole enemy.

OED. O wealth and sovereign power and high success Attained through wisdom and admired of men, What boundless jealousies environ you! When for this rule, which to my hand the State Committed unsolicited and free, Creon, my first of friends, trusted and sure, Would undermine and hurl me from my throne, Meanly suborning such a mendicant Botcher of lies, this crafty wizard rogue, Blind in his art, and seeing but for gain. Where are the proofs of thy prophetic power? How came it, when the minstrel-hound was here, This folk had no deliverance through thy word? Her snare could not be loosed by common wit, But needed divination and deep skill; No sign whereof proceeded forth from thee Procured through birds or given by God, till I, The unknowing traveller, overmastered her, The stranger Oedipus, not led by birds, But ravelling out the secret by my thought: Whom now you study to supplant, and trust To stand as a supporter of the throne Of lordly Creon,—To your bitter pain Thou and the man who plotted this will hunt Pollution forth[2].—But for thy reverend look Thou hadst atoned thy trespass on the spot.

CH. Your friends would humbly deprecate the wrath That sounds both in your speech, my lord, and his. That is not what we need, but to discern How best to solve the heavenly oracle.

TI. Though thou art king and lord, I claim no less Lordly prerogative to answer thee. Speech is my realm; Apollo rules my life, Not thou. Nor need I Creon to protect me. Now, then: my blindness moves thy scorn:—thou hast Thy sight, and seest not where thou art sunk in evil, What halls thou dost inhabit, or with whom: Know'st not from whence thou art—nay, to thy kin, Buried in death and here above the ground, Unwittingly art a most grievous foe. And when thy father's and thy mother's curse With fearful tread shall drive thee from the land, On both sides lashing thee,—thine eye so clear Beholding darkness in that day,—oh, then, What region will not shudder at thy cry? What echo in all Cithaeron will be mute, When thou perceiv'st, what bride-song in thy hall Wafted thy gallant bark with nattering gale To anchor,—where? And other store of ill Thou seest not, that shall show thee as thou art, Merged with thy children in one horror of birth. Then rail at noble Creon, and contemn My sacred utterance! No life on earth More vilely shall be rooted out, than thine.

OED. Must I endure such words from him? Begone! Off to thy ruin, and with speed! Away, And take thy presence from our palace-hall!

TI. Had you not sent for me, I ne'er had come.

OED. I knew not thou wouldst utter folly here, Else never had I brought thee to my door.

TI. To thee I am foolish, then; but to the pair Who gave thee life, I was wise.

OED. Hold, go not! who? Who gave me being?

TI. To-day shall bring to light Thy birth and thy destruction.

OED. Wilt thou still Speak all in riddles and dark sentences?

TI. Methought thou wert the man to find them out.

OED. Ay! Taunt me with the gift that makes me great.

TI. And yet this luck hath been thy overthrow.

OED. I care not, since I rescued this fair town.

TI. Then I will go. Come, sirrah, guide me forth!

OED. Be it so! For standing here you vex our eye, But, you being gone, our trouble goes with you.

TI. I go, but I will speak. Why should I fear Thy frown? Thou ne'er canst ruin me. The word Wherefore I came, is this: The man you seek With threatening proclamation of the guilt Of Laius' blood, that man is here to-day, An alien sojourner supposed from far, But by-and-by he shall be certified A true-born Theban: nor will such event Bring him great joy; for, blind from having sight And beggared from high fortune, with a staff In stranger lands he shall feel forth his way; Shown living with the children of his loins, Their brother and their sire, and to the womb That bare him, husband-son, and, to his father, Parricide and corrival. Now go in, Ponder my words; and if thou find them false, then say my power is naught in prophecy. [Exeunt severally

CHORUS. Whom hath the voice from Delphi's rocky throne I 1 Loudly declared to have done Horror unnameable with murdering hand? With speed of storm-swift car 'Tis time he fled afar With mighty footstep hurrying from the land. For, armed with lightning brand, The son of Zeus assails him with fierce bounds, Hunting with Death's inevitable hounds.

Late from divine Parnassus' snow-capped height I 2 This utterance sprang to light, To track by every path the man unknown. Through woodland caverns deep And o'er the rocky steep Harbouring in caves he roams the wild alone, With none to share his moan. Shunning that prophet-voice's central sound, Which ever lives, and haunts him, hovering round.

The reverend Seer hath stirred me with strange awe. II 1 Gainsay I cannot, nor yet think him true. I know not how to speak. My fluttering heart In wild expectancy sees nothing clear. Things past and future with the present doubt Are shrouded in one mist. What quarrel lay 'Twixt Cadmus' issue and Corinthus' heir Was never shown me, from old times till now, By one on whose sure word I might rely In running counter to the King's fair fame, To wreak for Laius that mysterious death.

Zeus and Apollo scan the ways of men II 2 With perfect vision. But of mortals here That soothsayers are more inspired than I What certain proof is given? A man through wit May pass another's wisdom in the race. But never, till I see the word fulfilled, Will I confirm their clamour 'gainst the King. In open day the female monster came: Then perfect witness made his wisdom clear. Thebe hath tried him and delights in him. Wherefore my heart shall still believe him good.

Enter CREON.

CR. Citizens, hearing of dire calumny Denounced on me by Oedipus the King, I am here to make loud protest. If he think, In this embroilment of events, one word Or deed of mine hath wrought him injury, I am not careful to prolong my life Beneath such imputation. For it means No trifling danger, but disastrous harm, Making my life dishonoured in the state, And meanly thought of by my friends and you.

CH. Perchance 'twas but the sudden flash of wrath, Not the deliberate judgement of the soul.

CR. Who durst declare it[3], that Tiresias spake False prophecies, set on to this by me?

CH. Such things were said, I know not how advised.

CR. And were the eyes and spirit not distraught, When the tongue uttered this to ruin me?

CH. I cannot say. To what my betters do I am blind. But see, the King comes forth again.

Enter OEDIPUS.

OED. Insolent, art thou here? Hadst thou the face To bring thy boldness near my palace-roof, Proved as thou art to have contrived my death And laid thy robber hands upon my state? Tell me, by heaven, had you seen in me A coward or a fool, when you planned this?— Deemed you I should be blind to your attempt Craftily creeping on, or, when perceived, Not ward it off? Is't not a silly scheme, To think to compass without troops of friends Power, that is only won by wealth and men?

CR. Wilt them be counselled? Hear as much in turn As thou hast spoken, and then thyself be judge.

OED. I know thy tongue, but I am slow to learn From thee, whom I have found my grievous foe.

CR. First on this very point, hear me declare—

OED. I will not hear that thou art not a villain.

CR. Thine is a shallow judgement, if thou thinkest Self-will without true thought can bring thee gain.

OED. Thine is a shallow judgement, if thou thinkest Thou canst abuse thy kinsman and be free.

CR. A rightful sentence. But I fain would learn What wrong is that you speak of?

OED. Tell me this; Didst thou, or not, urge me to send and bring The reverend-seeming prophet?

CR. Yea, and still I hold that counsel firm.

OED. How long is 't now Since Laius—

CR. What? I do not catch your drift.

OED. Vanished in ruin by a dire defeat?

CR. 'Twere long to count the years that come between.

OED. And did this prophet then profess his art?

CR. Wise then as now, nor less in reverence.

OED. Then at that season did he mention me?

CR. Not in my hearing.

OED. But, I may presume, Ye held an inquisition for the dead?

CR. Yes, we inquired, of course: and could not hear.

OED. Why was he dumb, your prophet, in that day?

CR. I cannot answer, for I do not know.

OED. This you can answer, for you know it well.

CR. Say what? I will not gainsay, if I know.

OED. That, but for your advice, he had not dared To talk of Laius' death as done by me.

CR. You know, that heard him, what he spake. But I Would ask thee too a question in my turn.

OED. No questioning will fasten blood on me.

CR. Hast thou my sister for thine honoured queen?

OED. The fact is patent, and denial vain.

CR. And shar'st with her dominion of this realm?

OED. All she desires is given her by my will.

CR. Then, am not I third-partner with you twain?

OED. There is your villany in breaking fealty.

CR. Not so, if thou wouldst reason with thyself As I do. First consider one thing well: Who would choose rule accompanied with fear Before safe slumbers with an equal sway? 'Tis not my nature, no, nor any man's, Who follows wholesome thoughts, to love the place Of domination rather than the power. Now, without fear, I have my will from thee; But were I king, I should do much unwillingly. How then can I desire to be a king, When masterdom is mine without annoy? Delusion hath not gone so far with me As to crave more than honour joined with gain. Now all men hail me happy, all embrace me; All who have need of thee, call in my aid; For thereupon their fortunes wholly turn. How should I leave this substance for that show? No man of sense can harbour thoughts of crime. Such vain ambition hath no charm for me, Nor could I bear to lend it countenance. If you would try me, go and ask again If I brought Phoebus' answer truly back. Nay more, should I be found to have devised Aught in collusion with the seer, destroy me, Not by one vote, but two, mine own with thine. But do not on a dim suspicion blame me Of thy mere will. To darken a good name Without clear cause is heinous wickedness; And to cast off a worthy friend I call No less a folly than to fling away What most we love, the life within our breast. The certainty of this will come with time; For time alone can clear the righteous man. An hour suffices to make known the villain.

CH. Prudence bids hearken to such words, my lord, For fear one fall. Swift is not sure in counsel.

OED. When he who hath designs on me is swift In his advance, I must bethink me swiftly. Should I wait leisurely, his work hath gained Achievement, while my plans have missed success.

CR. What would you then? To thrust me from the land?

OED. Nay, death, not exile, is my wish for thee, When all have seen what envy brings on men.

[CR. You'll ne'er relent nor listen to my plea.][4]

OED. You'll ne'er be governed or repent your guilt.

CR. Because I see thou art blind.

OED. Not to my need.

CR. Mine must be thought of too.

OED. You are a villain.

CR. How if thy thought be vain?

OED. Authority Must be maintained.

CR. Not when authority Declines to evil.

OED. O my citizens!

CR. I have a part in them no less than you.

LEADER OF CH. Cease, princes. Opportunely I behold Jocasta coming toward you from the palace. Her presence may attune your jarring minds.

Enter JOCASTA.

JOCASTA. Unhappy that ye are, why have ye reared Your wordy rancour 'mid the city's harms? Have you no shame, to stir up private broils In such a time as this? Get thee within! (To OED) And thou too, Creon! nor enlarge your griefs To make a mountain out of nothingness.

CR. Sister, thy husband Oedipus declares One of two horrors he will wreak on me, Banishment from my native land, or death.

OED. Yea, for I caught him practising, my queen, Against our person with malignant guile.

CR. May comfort fail me, and a withering curse Destroy me, if I e'er planned aught of this.

JO. I pray thee, husband, listen to his plea; Chiefly respecting his appeal to Heaven, But also me, and these who stand by thee.

CH. 1. Incline to our request I 1 Thy mind and heart, O King!

OED. What would you I should yield unto your prayer?

CH. 2. Respect one ever wise, Whose oath protects him now.

OED. Know ye what thing ye ask?

CH. 3. I know.

OED. Then plainly tell.

CH. 4. Thy friend, who is rendered sacred by his oath, Rob not of honour through obscure surmise.

OED. In asking that, you labour for my death Or banishment. Of this be well assured.

CH. 5. No, by the Sun I swear, II 1 Vaunt-courier of the host of heaven. For may I die the last of deaths, Unblest of God or friend, If e'er such thought were mine. But oh! this pining land Afflicts my sorrow-burdened soul, To think that to her past and present woe She must add this, which springs to her from you.

OED. Then let him range, though I must die outright, Or be thrust forth with violence from the land! —Not for his voice, but thine, which wrings my heart: He, wheresoe'er he live, shall have my hate.

CR. You show yourself as sullen when you yield, As unendurable in your fury's height. Such natures justly give themselves most pain.

OED. Let me alone, then, and begone!

CR. I go, Untainted in their sight, though thou art blind. [Exit

CH. 1. Lady, why tarriest thou I 2 To lead thy husband in?

JO. Not till I learn what mischief is befallen.

CH. 2. A dim, unproved debate. Reproach, though unfounded, stings.

JO. From both?

CH. 3. From both alike.

JO. How caused?

CH. 4. Enough for me, Amply enough it seems, when our poor land Is vexed already, not to wake what sleeps.

OED. (to LEADER OF CH.). See where thine honest zeal hath landed thee, Bating my wrath, and blunting my desire!

CH. 5. My prince, I say it again: II 2 Assure thee, I were lost to sense, Infatuate, void of wholesome thought, Could I be tempted now To loose my faith from thee, Who, when the land I love Laboured beneath a wildering load, Didst speed her forth anew with favouring gale. Now, too, if but thou may'st, be her good guide.

JO. Let not thy queen be left in ignorance What cause thou hadst to lift thy wrath so high.

OED. I'll tell thee, lady, for I honour thee More than these citizens. 'Twas Creon there, And his inveterate treason against me.

JO. Accuse him, so you make the quarrel plain.

OED. He saith I am the murderer of the King.

JO. Speaks he from hearsay, or as one who knows?

OED. He keeps his own lips free: but hath suborned A rascal soothsayer to this villany.

JO. Hearken to me, and set your heart at rest On that you speak of, while I make you learn No mortal thing is touched by soothsaying. Of that I'll give thee warrant brief and plain. Word came to Laius once, I will not say From Phoebus' self, but from his ministers, The King should be destroyed by his own son, If son were born to him from me. What followed? Laius was slain, by robbers from abroad, Saith Rumour, in a cross-way! But the child Lived not three days, ere by my husband's hand His feet were locked, and he was cast and left By messengers on the waste mountain wold. So Phoebus neither brought upon the boy His father's murder, nor on Laius The thing he greatly feared, death by his son. Such issue came of prophesying words. Therefore regard them not. God can himself With ease bring forth what for his ends he needs.

OED. What strange emotions overcloud my soul, Stirred to her depths on hearing this thy tale!

JO. What sudden change is this? What cares oppress thee?

OED. Methought I heard thee say, King Laius Was at a cross-road overpowered and slain?

JO. So ran the talk that yet is current here.

OED. Where was the scene of this unhappy blow?

JO. Phocis the land is named. The parted ways Meet in one point from Dauha and from Delphi.

OED. And since the event how much of time hath flown?

JO. 'Twas just ere you appeared with prospering speed And took the kingdom, that the tidings came.

OED. What are thy purposes against me, Zeus?

JO. Why broods thy mind upon such thoughts, my king?

OED. Nay, ask me not! But tell me first what height Had Laius, and what grace of manly prime?

JO. Tall, with dark locks just sprinkled o'er with grey: In shape and bearing much resembling thee.

OED. O heavy fate! How all unknowingly I laid that dreadful curse on my own head!

JO. How? I tremble as I gaze on thee, my king!

OED. The fear appals me that the seer can see. Tell one thing more, to make it doubly clear!

JO. I am lothe to speak, but, when you ask, I will.

OED. Had he scant following, or, as princes use, Full numbers of a well-appointed train?

JO. There were but five in all: a herald one; And Laius travelled in the only car.

OED. Woe! woe! 'Tis clear as daylight. Who was he That brought you this dire message, O my queen?

JO. A home-slave, who alone returned alive.

OED. And is he now at hand within the house?

JO. No, truly. When he came from yonder scene And found thee king in room of Laius murdered, He touched my hand, and made his instant prayer That I would send him to o'erlook the flocks And rural pastures, so to live as far As might be from the very thought of Thebes. I granted his desire. No servant ever More richly merited such boon than he.

OED. Can he be brought again immediately?

JO. Indeed he can. But why desire it so?

OED. Words have by me been uttered, O my queen, That give me too much cause to wish him here.

JO. Then come he shall. But I may surely claim To hear what in thy state goes heavily.

OED. Thou shalt not lose thy rights in such an hour, When I am harrowed thus with doubt and fear. To whom more worthy should I tell my grief? —My father was Corinthian Polybus, My mother, Dorian Merope.—I lived A prince among that people, till a chance Encountered me, worth wonder, but, though strange, Not worth the anxious thought it waked in me. For at a feasting once over the wine One deep in liquor called aloud to me, 'Hail, thou false foundling of a foster-sire!' That day with pain I held my passion down; But early on the morrow I came near And questioned both my parents, who were fierce In anger at the man who broached this word. For their part I was satisfied, but still It galled me, for the rumour would not die. Eluding then my parents I made way To Delphi, where, as touching my desire, Phoebus denied me; but brake forth instead With other oracles of misery And horrible misfortune, how that I Must know my mother's shame, and cause to appear A birth intolerable in human view, And do to death the author of my life. I fled forth at the word, conjecturing now Corinthia's region by the stars of heaven, And wandered, where I never might behold Those dreadful prophecies fulfilled on me. So travelling on, I came even to the place Where, as thou tell'st, the King of Thebe fell. And, O my wife, I will hide nought from thee. When I drew near the cross-road of your tale, A herald, and a man upon a car, Like your description, there encountered me. And he who led the car, and he himself The greybeard, sought to thrust me from the path. Then in mine angry mood I sharply struck The driver-man who turned me from the way; Which when the elder saw, he watched for me As I passed by, and from the chariot-seat Smote full upon my head with the fork'd goad; But got more than he gave; for, by a blow From this right hand, smit with my staff, he fell Instantly rolled out of the car supine. I slew them every one. Now if that stranger Had aught in common with king Laius, What wretch on earth was e'er so lost as I? Whom have the Heavens so followed with their hate? No house of Theban or of foreigner Must any more receive me, none henceforth Must speak to me, but drive me from the door! I, I have laid this curse on mine own head! Yea, and this arm that slew him now enfolds His queen. O cruel stain! Am I not vile? Polluted utterly! Yes, I must flee, And, lost to Thebe, nevermore behold My home, nor tread my country, lest I meet In marriage mine own mother, and bring low His head that gave me life and reared my youth, My father, Polybus. Ah! right were he Who should declare some god of cruel mood Had sent this trouble upon my soul! Ye Powers, Worshipped in holiness, ne'er may I see That day, but perish from the sight of men, Ere sins like these be branded on my name!

CH. Thy fear is ours, O king: yet lose not hope, Till thou hast heard the witness of the deed.

OED. Ay, that is all I still have left of hope, To bide the coming of the shepherd man.

JO. What eager thought attends his presence here?

OED. I'll tell thee. Should his speech accord with thine, My life stands clear from this calamity.

JO. What word of mine agreed not with the scene?

OED. You said he spake of robbers in a band As having slain him. Now if he shall still Persist in the same number, I am free. One man and many cannot be the same. But should he tell of one lone traveller, Then, unavoidably, this falls on me.

JO. So 'twas given out by him, be sure of that. He cannot take it back. Not I alone But all the people heard him speak it so. And should he swerve in aught from his first tale, He ne'er can show the murder of the king Rightly accordant with the oracle. For Phoebus said expressly he should fall Through him whom I brought forth. But that poor babe Ne'er slew his sire, but perished long before. Wherefore henceforth I will pursue my way Regardless of all words of prophecy.

OED. Wisely resolved. But still send one to bring The labourer swain, and be not slack in this.

JO. I will, and promptly. Go we now within! My whole desire is but to work thy will. [Exeunt

CHORUS O may my life be evermore I 1 Pure in each holy word and deed By those eternal laws decreed That pace the sapphire-paven floor! Children of Heaven, of Ether born, No mortal knew their natal morn, Nor may Oblivion's waters deep E'er lull their wakeful spirit asleep, Nor creeping Age o'erpower the mighty God Who far within them holds his unprofaned abode.

Pride breeds the tyrant: monstrous birth! I 2 Insolent Pride, if idly nursed On timeless surfeit, plenty accursed, Spurning the lowlier tract of Earth Mounts to her pinnacle,—then falls, Dashed headlong down sheer mountain walls To dark Necessity's deep ground, Where never foothold can be found. Let wrestlers for my country's glory speed, God, I thee pray! Be God my helper in all need!

But if one be, whose bold disdain I 2 Walks in a round of vapourings vain And violent acts, regarding not The Rule of Right, but with proud thought Scorning the place where Gods have set their seat, —Made captive by an Evil Doom, Shorn of that inauspicious bloom, Let him be shown the path of lawful gain And taught in holier ways to guide his feet, Nor with mad folly strain His passionate arms to clasp things impious to retain. Who in such courses shall defend his soul From storms of thundrous wrath that o'er him roll? If honour to such lives be given, What needs our choir to hymn the power of Heaven?

No more to Delphi, central shrine II 2 Of Earth, I'll seek, for light divine, Nor visit Abae's mystic fane Nor travel o'er the well-trod plain Where thousands throng to famed Olympia's town, Unless, with manifest accord, The event fulfil the oracular word. Zeus, Lord of all! if to eternity Thou would'st confirm thy kingdom's large renown, Let not their vauntings high Evade the sovereign look of the everlasting eye! They make as though the ancient warning slept By Laius erst with fear and trembling kept; Apollo's glory groweth pale, And holiest rites are prone to faint and fail.

Enter JOCASTA.

JO. Princes of Thebes, it came into my thought To stand before some holy altar-place With frankincense and garlands. For the king, Transported by the tempest of his fear, Runs wild in grief, nor like a man of sense Reasons of present things from what hath been. Each tongue o'ermasters him that tells of woe. Then since my counsels are of no avail, To thee, for thou art nearest, Lykian God, I bring my supplication with full hand. O grant us absolution and relief! For seeing him, our pilot, so distraught, Like mariners, we are all amazed with dread.

Enter the CORINTHIAN SHEPHERD.

COR. SH. Are ye the men to tell me where to find The mansion of the sovereign Oedipus? Or better, where he may himself be found?

CH. Here is the roof you seek, and he, our lord, Is there within: and, stranger, thou behold'st The queenly mother of his royal race.

COR. SH. May she and hers be alway fortunate! Still may she crown him with the joys of home!

JO. Be thou, too, blest, kind sir! Thy gracious tongue Deserves no less. But tell me what request Or what intelligence thou bring'st with thee?

COR. SH. Good tidings for thy house and husband, queen.

JO. What are they? Who hath sent thee to our hall?

COR. SH. From Corinth come I, and will quickly tell What sure will please you; though perchance 'twill grieve.

JO. What news can move us thus two ways at once?

COR. SH. 'Twas rumoured that the people of the land Of Corinth would make Oedipus their king.

JO. Is ancient Polybus not still in power?

COR. SH. No. Death confines him in a kingly grave.

JO. Hold there! How say you? Polybus in his grave?

COR. SH. May I die for him if I speak not true!

JO. (To an attendant). Run thou, and tell this quickly to my lord! Voices of prophecy, where are ye now? Long time hath Oedipus, a homeless man, Trembled with fear of slaying Polybus. Who now lies slain by Fortune, not by him.

Enter OEDIPUS.

OED. Jocasta, my dear queen, why didst thou send To bring me hither from our palace-hall?

JO. Hear that man's tale, and then consider well The end of yonder dreadful prophecy.

OED. Who is the man, and what his errand here?

JO. He comes from Corinth, to make known to thee That Polybus, thy father, is no more.

OED. How, stranger? Let me learn it from thy mouth.

COR. SH. If my first duty be to make this clear, Know beyond doubt that he is dead and gone.

OED. By illness coming o'er him, or by guile?

COR. SH. Light pressure lays to rest the timeworn frame.

OED. He was subdued by sickness then, poor soul!

COR. SH. By sickness and the burden of his years.

OED. Ah! my Jocasta, who again will heed The Pythian hearth oracular, and birds Screaming in air, blind guides! that would have made My father's death my deed; but he is gone, Hidden underneath the ground, while I stand hero Harmless and weaponless:—unless, perchance, My absence killed him,—so he may have died Through me. But be that as it may, the grave That covers Polybus, hath silenced, too, One voice of prophecy, worth nothing now.

JO. Did I not tell thee so, long since?

OED. Thou didst. But I was drawn to error by my fear.

JO. Now cast it altogether out of mind.

OED. Must I not fear my mother's marriage-bed?

JO. Why should man fear, seeing his course is ruled By fortune, and he nothing can foreknow? 'Tis best to live at ease as best one may. Then fear not thou thy mother's nuptial hour. Many a man ere now in dreams hath lain With her who bare him. He hath least annoy Who with such omens troubleth not his mind.

OED. That word would be well spoken, were not she Alive that gave me birth. But since she lives, Though you speak well, yet have I cause for fear.

JO. Your father's burial might enlighten you.

OED. It doth. But I am darkened by a life.

COR. SH. Whose being overshadows thee with fear?

OED. Queen Merope, the consort of your king.

COR. SH. What in her life should make your heart afraid?

OED. A heaven-sent oracle of dreadful sound.

COR. SH. May it be told, or must no stranger know?

OED. Indeed it may. Word came from Phoebus once That I must know my mother's shame, and shed With these my hands my own true father's blood. Wherefore long since my home hath been removed Far from Corinthos:—not unhappily; But still 'tis sweet to see a parent's face.

COR. SH. Did fear of this make thee so long an exile?

OED. Of this and parricide, my aged friend.

COR. SH. I came with kind intent—and, dear my lord, I fain would rid thee from this haunting dread.

OED. Our gratitude should well reward thy love.

COR. SH. Hope of reward from thee in thy return Was one chief motive of my journey hither.

OED. Return? Not to my parents' dwelling-place!

COR. SH. Son, 'tis too clear, you know not what you do.

OED. Wherefore, kind sir? For Heaven's sake teach me this.

COR. SH. If for these reasons you avoid your home.

OED. The fear torments me, Phoebus may prove true.

COR. SH. Lest from your parents you receive a stain?

OED. That is the life-long torment of my soul.

COR. SH. Will you be certified your fears are groundless?

OED. How groundless, if I am my parents' child?

COR. SH. Because with Polybus thou hast no kin.

OED. Why? Was not he the author of my life?

COR. SH. As much as I am, and no more than I.

OED. How can my father be no more to me Than who is nothing?

COR. SH. In begetting thee Nor I nor he had any part at all.

OED. Why then did he declare me for his son?

COR. SH. Because he took thee once a gift from me.

OED. Was all that love unto a foundling shown?

COR. SH. Heirless affection so inclined his heart.

OED. A gift from you! Your purchase, or your child?[5]

COR. SH. Found in Cithaeron's hollowy wilderness.

OED. What led your travelling footstep to that ground?

COR. SH. The flocks I tended grazed the mountain there.

OED. A shepherd wast thou, and a wandering hind?

COR. SH. Whatever else, my son, thy saviour then.

OED. From what didst thou release me or relieve?

COR. SH. Thine instep bears memorial of the pain.

OED. Ah! what old evil will thy words disclose?

COR. SH. Thy feet were pierced. 'Twas I unfastened them.

OED. So cruel to my tender infancy!

COR. SH. From this thou hast received thy name.

OED. By heaven I pray thee, did my father do this thing, Or was't my mother?

COR. SH. That I dare not say. He should know best who gave thee to my hand.

OED. Another gave me, then? You did not find me?

COR. SH. Another herdsman passed thee on to me.

OED. Can you describe him? Tell us what you know.

COR. SH. Methinks they called him one of Laius' people.

OED. Of Laius once the sovereign of this land?

COR. SH. E'en so. He was a shepherd of his flock.

OED. And is he still alive for me to see?

COR. SH. You Thebans are most likely to know that.

OED. Speak, any one of you in presence here, Can you make known the swain he tells us of, In town or country having met with him? The hour for this discovery is full come.

CH. Methinks it is no other than the peasant Whom thou didst seek before to see: but this Could best be told by queen Jocasta there.

OED. We lately sought that one should come, my queen. Know'st thou, is this of whom he speaks the same?

JO. What matter who? Regard not, nor desire Even vainly to remember aught he saith.

OED. When I have found such tokens of my birth, I must disclose it.

JO. As you love your life, By heaven I beg you, search no further here! The sickness in my bosom is enough.

OED. Nay, never fear! Were I proved thrice a slave And waif of bondwomen, you still are noble.

JO. Yet hearken, I implore you: do not so.

OED. I cannot hear you. I must know this through.

JO. With clear perception I advise the best.

OED. Thy 'best' is still my torment.

JO. Wretched one, Never may'st thou discover who thou art!

OED. Will some one go and bring the herdman hither? Leave her to revel in her lordly line!

JO. O horrible! O lost one! This alone I speak to thee, and no word more for ever. [Exit

CH. Oedipus, wherefore is Jocasta gone, Driven madly by wild grief? I needs must fear Lest from this silence she make sorrow spring.

OED. Leave her to raise what storm she will. But I Will persevere to know mine origin, Though from an humble seed. Her woman's pride Is shamed, it may be, by my lowliness. But I, whilst I account myself the son Of prospering Fortune, ne'er will be disgraced. For she is my true mother: and the months, Coheirs with me of the same father, Time, Have marked my lowness and mine exaltation. So born, so nurtured, I can fear no change, That I need shrink to probe this to the root. [OEDIPUS remains, and gazes towards the country, while the CHORUS sing

CHORUS. If I wield a prophet's might, 1 Or have sense to search aright, Cithaeron, when all night the moon rides high, Loud thy praise shall be confessed, How upon thy rugged breast, Thou, mighty mother, nursed'st tenderly Great Oedipus, and gav'st his being room Within thy spacious home. Yea, we will dance and sing Thy glory for thy kindness to our king. Phoebus, unto thee we cry, Be this pleasing in thine eye!

Who, dear sovereign, gave thee birth, 2 Of the long lived nymphs of earth? Say, was she clasped by mountain roving Pan? Or beguiled she one sweet hour With Apollo in her bower, Who loves to trace the field untrod by man? Or was the ruler of Cyllene's height The author of thy light? Or did the Bacchic god, Who makes the top of Helicon to nod, Take thee for a foundling care From his playmates that are there?

The THEBAN SHEPHERD is seen approaching, guarded.

OED. If haply I, who never saw his face, Thebans, may guess, methinks I see the hind Whose coming we have longed for. Both his age, Agreeing with this other's wintry locks, Accords with my conjecture, and the garb Of his conductors is well known to me As that of mine own people. But methinks [to LEADER of CHORUS] Thou hast more perfect knowledge in this case, Having beheld the herdman in the past.

CH. I know him well, believe me. Laius Had no more faithful shepherd than this man.

OED. Corinthian friend, I first appeal to you: Was't he you spake of?

COR. SH. 'Twas the man you see.

OED. Turn thine eyes hither, aged friend, and tell What I shall ask thee. Wast thou Laius' slave?

THEB. SH. I was, not bought, but bred within the house.

OED. What charge or occupation was thy care?

THEB. SH. Most of my time was spent in shepherding.

OED. And where didst thou inhabit with thy flock?

THEB. SH. 'Twas now Cithaeron, now the neighbouring tract.

OED. And hadst thou there acquaintance of this man?

THEB. SH. Following what service? What is he you mean?

OED. The man you see. Hast thou had dealings with him?

THEB. SH. I cannot bring him all at once to mind.

COR. SH. No marvel, good my lord. But I will soon Wake to clear knowledge his oblivious sense. For sure I am he can recall the time, When he with his two flocks, and I with one Beside him, grazed Cithaeron's pasture wide Good six months' space of three successive years, From spring to rising of Arcturus; then For the bleak winter season, I drove mine To their own folds, he his to Laius' stalls. Do I talk idly, or is this the truth?

THEB. SH. The time is far remote. But all is true.

COR. SH. Well, dost remember having given me then A child, that I might nurture him for mine?

THEB. SH. What means thy question? Let me know thy drift.

COR. SH. Friend, yonder stands the infant whom we knew.

THEB. SH. Confusion seize thee, and thy evil tongue!

OED. Check not his speech, I pray thee, for thy words Call more than his for chastisement, old sir.

THEB. SH. O my dread lord, therein do I offend?

OED. Thou wilt not answer him about the child?

THEB. SH. He knows not what he speaks. His end is vain.

OED. So! Thou'lt not tell to please us, but the lash Will make thee tell.

THEB. SH. By all that's merciful, Scourge not this aged frame!

OED. Pinion him straight!

THEB. SH. Unhappy! wherefore? what is't you would know?

OED. Gave you this man the child of whom he asks you?

THEB. SH. I gave it him. Would I had died that hour!

OED. Speak rightly, or your wish will soon come true.

THEB. SH. My ruin comes the sooner, if I speak.

OED. This man will balk us with his baffling prate.

THEB. SH. Not so. I said long since, 'I gave the child.'

OED. Whence? Was't your own, or from another's hand?

THEB. SH. 'Twas not mine own; another gave it me.

OED. What Theban gave it, from what home in Thebes?

THEB. SH. O, I implore thee, master, ask no more!

OED. You perish, if I have to ask again.

THEB. SH. The child was of the stock of Laius.

OED. Slave-born, or rightly of the royal line?

THEB. SH. Ah me! Now comes the horror to my tongue!

OED. And to mine ear. But thou shalt tell it me!

THEB. SH. He was given out for Laius' son: but she, Thy queen, within the palace, best can tell.

OED. How? Did she give it thee?

THEB. SH. My lord, she did.

OED. With what commission?

THEB. SH. I was to destroy him.

OED. And could a mother's heart be steeled to this?

THEB. SH. With fear of evil prophecies.

OED. What were they?

THEB. SH. 'Twas said the child should be his father's death.

OED. What then possessed thee to give up the child To this old man?

THEB. SH. Pity, my sovereign lord! Supposing he would take him far away Unto the land whence he was come. But he Preserved him to great sorrow. For if thou Art he this man hath said, be well assured Thou bear'st a heavy doom.

OED. O horrible! Horrible! All fulfilled, as sunlight clear! Oh may I nevermore behold the day, Since proved accursed in my parentage, In those I live with, and in him I slew! [Exeunt

CHORUS. O mortal tribes of men, I 1 How near to nothingness I count you while your lives remain! What man that lives hath more of happiness Than to seem blest, and, seeming, fade in night? O Oedipus, in this thine hour of gloom, Musing on thee and thy relentless doom, I call none happy who beholds the light.

Thou through surpassing skill I 2 Didst rise to wealth and power, When thou the monstrous riddling maid didst kill, And stoodst forth to my country as a tower To guard from myriad deaths this glorious town; Whence thou wert called my king, of faultless fame, In all the world a far-resounded name, Unparagoned in honour and renown.

But now to hear of thee, who more distressed? II 1 Who more acquainted with fierce misery, Assaulted by disasters manifest, Than thou in this thy day of agony? Most noble, most renowned!—Yet one same room Heard thy first cry, and in thy prime of power, Received thee, harbouring both bride and groom, And bore it silently till this dread hour. How could that furrowing of thy father's field Year after year continue unrevealed?

Time hath detected thine unwitting deed, II 2 Time, who discovers all with eyes of fire, Accusing thee of living without heed In hideous wedlock husband, son, and sire. Ah would that we, thou child of Laius born, Ah would that we had never seen thee nigh! E'er since we knew thee who thou art, we mourn Exceedingly with cries that rend the sky. For, to tell truth, thou didst restore our life And gavest our soul sweet respite after strife.

Enter Messenger.

MESS. O ye who in this land have ever held Chief honour, what an object of dire woe Awaits your eyes, your ears! What piercing grief Your hearts must suffer, if as kinsmen should Ye still regard the house of Laius! Not Phasis, nor the Danube's rolling flood, Can ever wash away the stain and purge This mansion of the horror that it hides. —And more it soon shall give to light, not now Unconsciously enacted. Of all ill, Self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear.

CH. What hast thou new to add? the weight of grief From that we know burdens the heart enough.

MESS. Soon spoken and soon heard is the chief sum. Jocasta's royal head is sunk in death.

CH. The hapless queen! What was the fatal cause?

MESS. Her own determination. You are spared The worst affliction, not being there to see. Yet to the height of my poor memory's power The wretched lady's passion you shall hear. When she had passed in her hot mood within The vestibule, straight to the bridal room She rushes, tearing with both hands her hair. Then having entered, shutting fast the door, She called aloud on Laius, long dead, With anguished memory of that birth of old Whereby the father fell, leaving his queen To breed a dreadful brood for his own son. And loudly o'er the bed she wailed, where she, In twofold wedlock, hapless, had brought forth Husband from husband, children from a child. We could not know the moment of her death, Which followed soon, for Oedipus with cries Broke in, and would not let us see her end, But held our eyes as he careered the hall, Demanding arms, and where to find his wife,— No, not his wife, but fatal mother-croft, Cropped doubly with himself and his own seed. And in his rage some god directed him To find her:—'twas no man of us at hand. Then with a fearful shout, as following His leader, he assailed the folding-doors; And battering inward from the mortised bolts The bending boards, he burst into the room: Where high suspended we beheld the queen, In twisted cordage resolutely swung. He all at once on seeing her, wretched king! Undid the pendent noose, and on the ground Lay the ill-starred queen. Oh, then 'twas terrible To see what followed—for he tore away The tiring-pins wherewith she was arrayed, And, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root, Saying, Nevermore should they behold the evil His life inherited from that past time, But all in dark henceforth should look upon Features far better not beheld, and fail To recognize the souls he had longed to know. Thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes He drave the points into his eyes; and soon The bleeding pupils moistened all his beard, Nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once The ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower. Thus from two springs, from man and wife together, Rose the joint evil that is now o'erflowing. And the old happiness in that past day Was truly happy, but the present hour Hath pain, crime, ruin:—whatsoe'er of ill Mankind have named, not one is absent here.

CH. And finds the sufferer now some pause of woe?

MESS. He bids make wide the portal and display To all the men of Thebes the man who slew His father, who unto his mother did What I dare not repeat, and fain would fling His body from the land, nor calmly bide The shock of his own curse on his own hall. Meanwhile he needs some comfort and some guide, For such a load of misery who can bear? Thyself shalt judge: for, lo, the palace-gates Unfold, and presently thine eyes will see A hateful sight, yet one thou needs must pity.

Enter OEDIPUS, blind and unattended.

LEADER OF CH. O horror of the world! Too great for mortal eye! More terrible than all I have known of ill! What fury of wild thought Came o'er thee? Who in heaven Hath leapt against thy hapless life With boundings out of measure fierce and huge? Ah! wretched one, I cannot look on thee: No, though I long to search, to ask, to learn. Thine aspect is too horrible.—I cannot!

OED. Me miserable! Whither am I borne? Into what region are these wavering sounds Wafted on aimless wings? O ruthless Fate! To what a height thy fury hath soared!

CH. Too far For human sense to follow, or human thought To endure the horror.

OED. O dark cloud, descending I 1 Unutterably on me! invincible, Abhorred, borne onward by too sure a wind. Woe, woe! Woe! Yet again I voice it, with such pangs Both from these piercing wounds I am assailed And from within through memory of my grief.

CH. Nay, 'tis no marvel if thy matchless woe Redouble thine affliction and thy moan!

OED. Ah! Friend, thou art still constant! Thou remainest I 2 To tend me and to care for the blind man. Alas! I know thee well, nor fail I to perceive, Dark though I be, thy kind familiar voice.

CH. How dreadful is thy deed! How couldst thou bear Thus to put out thine eyes? What Power impelled thee?

OED. Apollo, dear my friends, Apollo brought to pass II 1 In dreadful wise, this my calamitous woe. But I,—no being else,—I with this hand destroyed them. [Pointing to his eyes For why should I have sight, To whom nought now gave pleasure through the eye?

CH. There speak'st thou truly.

OED. What could I see, whom hear With gladness, whom delight in any more? Lead me away out of the land with speed! Be rid of the destroyer, the accursed, Whom most of all the world the Gods abhor.

CH. O miserable in thy calamity And not less miserable in thy despair, Would thou wert still in ignorance of thy birth!

OED. My curse on him who from the cruel bond II 2 That held my feet in that high pasture-land Freed me, and rescued me from murder there, And saved my life! Vain kindness! Then to have died Had spared this agony to me and mine.

CH. Ay, would it had been so!

OED. Then had I ne'er Been proved a parricide, ne'er borne the shame Of marriage bonds incestuous! But now I am God abandoned, Son of the unholy, Rival of him who gave me being. Ah woe! What sorrow beyond sorrows hath chief place? That sorrow Oedipus must bear!

LEADER OF CH. I know not how to call thee wise in this: Thou wert better dead than to be blind and live.

OED. That this last act hath not been for the best Instruct me not, nor counsel me again. How, if I kept my sight, could I have looked In Hades on my father's countenance, Or mine all hapless mother, when, toward both, I have done deeds no death can e'er atone? Ah! but my children were a sight of joy,— Offspring of such a marriage! were they so? Never, to eyes of mine! nor town, nor tower, Nor holy shrines o' the gods, which I myself, Dowered with the fairest life of Theban men, Have forfeited, alas, by mine own law, Declaring men should drive from every door One marked by Heaven as impious and impure, Nay worse, of Laius born! And was I then, By mine own edict branded thus, to look On Theban faces with unaltered eye? Nay verily, but had there been a way To stop the hearing fountain through the ear, I had not faltered, but had closed and barred Each gate of this poor body, deaf and blind! So thought might sweetly dwell at rest from ill Cithaeron! Why didst thou receive me? Why Not slay me then and there? So had I not Told to the world the horror of my birth. O foster home of Corinth and her king, How bright the life ye cherished, filming o'er What foulness far beneath! For I am vile, And vile were both my parents. So 'tis proved O cross road in the covert of the glen, O thicket in the gorge where three ways met, Bedewed by these my hands with mine own blood From whence I sprang—have ye forgotten me? Or doth some memory haunt you of the deeds I did before you, and went on to do Worse horrors here? O marriage twice accurst! That gave me being, and then again sent forth Fresh saplings springing from the selfsame seed, To amaze men's eyes and minds with dire confusion Of father, brother, son, bride, mother, wife, Murder of parents, and all shames that are! Silence alone befits such deeds. Then, pray you, Hide me immediately away from men! Kill me outright, or fling me far to sea, Where never ye may look upon me more. Come, lend your hand unto my misery! Comply, and fear not, for my load of woe Is incommunicable to all but me.

CH. With timely presence to fulfil thy need With act and counsel, Creon comes, who now Is regent o'er this people in thy room.

OED. Alas, what shall I say to him? What plea For my defence will hold? My evil part Toward him in all the past is clearly proved.

Enter CREON.

CR. I come not, Oedipus, to mock thy woes, Nor to reproach thee for thine evils past. But ye, (to Chorus) if all respect of mortal eye Be dead, let awe of the universal flame Of life's great nourisher, our lord the Sun, Forbid your holding thus unveiled to view This huge abomination, which nor Earth Nor sacred Element, nor light of Heaven Can once endure. Convey him in with speed. Religion bids that kindred eyes and ears Alone should witness kindred crime and woe.

OED. By Heaven, since thou hast reft away my fear, So nobly meeting my unworthiness, I pray thee, hear me for thine own behoof.

CR. What boon dost thou desire so earnestly?

OED. Fling me with speediest swiftness from the land, Where nevermore I may converse with men.

CR. Doubt not I would have done it, but the God Must be inquired of, ere we act herein.

OED. His sacred utterance was express and clear, The parricide, the unholy, should be slain.

CR. Ay, so 'twas spoken: but, in such a time, We needs must be advised more perfectly.

OED. Will ye then ask him for a wretch like me?

CR. Yea. For even thou methinks wilt now believe.

OED. Not only so. But I will charge thee too, With urgent exhortation, to perform The funeral rite for her who lies within— She is thy kinswoman—howe'er thou wilt. But never let this city of my sires Claim me for living habitant! There, there Leave me to range the mountain, where my nurse, Cithaeron, echoeth with my name,—Cithaeron, Which both my parents destined for my tomb. So my true murderers will be my death. Yet one thing I can tell. Mine end will come Not by disease nor ordinary chance I had not lived when at the point to die, But for some terrible doom. Then let my fate Run out its full career. But for my children Thou, Creon, shalt provide. As for my sons, I pray thee burden not thyself with them. They ne'er will lack subsistence—they are men. But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn, Who never had a meal apart from mine, But ever shared my table, yea, for them Take heedful care, and grant me, though but once. Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel, Thou noble heart! the forms I love so well, And weep with them our common misery. Oh, if my arms were round them, I might seem To have them as of old when I could see— What! Am I fooled once more, or do I hear My dear ones weeping! And hath Creon sent, Pitying my sorrows, mine own children to me Whom most I love? Can this be truth I utter?

CR. Yea, I have done it. For I knew the joy Thou ever hadst in this, thy comfort now.

OED. Fair be thy fortune, and, for this last deed, Heaven guide thee on a better course than mine. Where are ye, O my children? Come, draw near To these my hands of brother blood with you, Hands that have made so piteous to your sight The darkened gaze of his once brilliant eyes, Who all in blindness, with no thought of ill, Became your father at that fount of life, Where he himself took being! Oh! for you I weep, not seeing you, when I but think Of all the bitter passages of fate That must attend you amongst men. For where Can ye find fellowship, what civic throng Shall ye resort unto, what festival, From whence, instead of sight or sound enjoyed, Ye will not come in tears unto your home? And when ye reach the marriageable bloom, My daughters, who will be the man to cast His lot with yours, receiving for his own All those reproaches which have marred the name Of both my parents and your name no less? What evil is not here? Your father slew His father, and then eared the mother field Where he himself was sown, and got you from The source of his own birth. Such taunts will fly. And who will marry you? No man, my daughters; But ye must wither childless and unwed. Son of Menoeceus, who alone art left As father to these maidens, for the pair That gave them birth are utterly undone, Suffer them not, being your kinswomen, To wander desolate and poor, nor make Their lot perforce the counterpart of mine. But look on them with pity, left in youth Forlorn of all protection save from thee. Noble one, seal this promise with thy hand! —For you, my children, were ye of an age To ponder speech, I would have counselled you Full carefully. Now I would have you pray To dwell where 'tis convenient, that your life May find more blessing than your father knew.

CR. Thou hast had enough of weeping. Close thee in thy chamber walls.

OED. I must yield, though sore against me.

CR. Yea, for strong occasion calls.

OED. Know'st thou on what terms I yield it?

CR. Tell me, let us hear and know.

OED. That ye send from the country.

CR. God alone can let thee go.

OED. But the Gods long since abhor me.

CR. Thou wilt sooner gain that boon.

OED. Then consent.

CR. 'Tis not my wont to venture promises too soon.

OED. Lead me now within the palace.

CR. Come, but leave thy children.

OED. Nay! Tear not these from my embraces!

CR. Hope not for perpetual sway: Since the power thou once obtainedst ruling with unquestioned might Ebbing from thy life hath vanished ere the falling of the night.

LEADER OF CHORUS. Dwellers in our native Thebe, fix on Oedipus your eyes. Who resolved the dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise. Like a star his envied fortune mounted beaming[6] far and wide: Now he sinks in seas of anguish, whelmed beneath a raging tide. Therefore, with the old-world sages, waiting for that final day, I will call no mortal happy, while he holds his house of clay, Till without one pang of sorrow, all his hours have passed away.

* * * * *



ELECTRA

THE PERSONS

An Old Man, formerly one of the retainers of Agamemnon. ORESTES, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. ELECTRA, sister of Orestes. CHORUS of Argive Women. CHRYSOTHEMIS, sister of Orestes and Electra. CLYTEMNESTRA. AEGISTHUS.

PYLADES appears with ORESTES, but does not speak.

SCENE. Mycenae: before the palace of the Pelopidae.



Agamemnon on his return from Troy, had been murdered by his wife Clytemnestra and her paramour Aegisthus, who had usurped the Mycenean throne. Orestes, then a child, had been rescued by his sister Electra, and sent into Phocis with the one servant who remained faithful to his old master. The son of Agamemnon now returns, being of a full age, accompanied by this same attendant and his friend Pylades, with whom he has already concerted a plan for taking vengeance on his father's murderers, in obedience to the command of Apollo.

Orestes had been received in Phocis by Strophius, his father's friend. Another Phocian prince, named Phanoteus, was a friend of Aegisthus.



ELECTRA

ORESTES and the Old Man—PYLADES is present.

OLD MAN. Son of the king who led the Achaean host Erewhile beleaguering Troy, 'tis thine to day To see around thee what through many a year Thy forward spirit hath sighed for. Argolis Lies here before us, hallowed as the scene Of Io's wildering pain: yonder, the mart Named from the wolf slaying God[1], and there, to our left, Hera's famed temple. For we reach the bourn Of far renowned Mycenae, rich in gold And Pelops' fatal roofs before us rise, Haunted with many horrors, whence my hand, Thy murdered sire then lying in his gore, Received thee from thy sister, and removed Where I have kept thee safe and nourished thee To this bright manhood thou dost bear, to be The avenger of thy father's bloody death. Wherefore, Orestes, and thou, Pylades, Dearest of friends, though from a foreign soil, Prepare your enterprise with speed. Dark night Is vanished with her stars, and day's bright orb Hath waked the birds of morn into full song. Now, then, ere foot of man go forth, ye two Knit counsels. 'Tis no time for shy delay: The very moment for your act is come.

OR. Kind faithful friend, how well thou mak'st appear Thy constancy in service to our house! As some good steed, aged, but nobly bred, Slacks not his spirit in the day of war, But points his ears to the fray, even so dost thou Press on and urge thy master in the van. Hear, then, our purpose, and if aught thy mind, Keenly attent, discerns of weak or crude In this I now set forth, admonish me. I, when I visited the Pythian shrine Oracular, that I might learn whereby To punish home the murderers of my sire, Had word from Phoebus which you straight shall hear: 'No shielded host, but thine own craft, O King! The righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.' Then, since the will of Heaven is so revealed, Go thou within, when Opportunity Shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all Their business, bring us certain cognizance. Age and long absence are a safe disguise; They never will suspect thee who thou art. And let thy tale be that another land, Phocis, hath sent thee forth, and Phanoteus, Than whom they have no mightier help in war. Then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news, Orestes' death by dire mischance, down-rolled From wheel-borne chariot in the Pythian course. So let the fable be devised; while we, As Phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks Shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown My father's sepulchre, and thence return Bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze That's hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest, And bring them welcome tidings, that my form Is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire. How should this pain me, in pretence being dead, Really to save myself and win renown? No saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain. Oft have I known the wise, dying in word, Return with glorious salutation home. So lightened by this rumour shall mine eye Blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies. O native earth! and Gods that hold the land, Accept me here, and prosper this my way! Thou, too, paternal hearth! To thee I come, Justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven. Send me not bootless, Gods, but let me found A wealthy line of fair posterity! I have spoken. To thy charge! and with good heed Perform it. We go forth. The Occasion calls, Great taskmaster of enterprise to men.

ELECTRA (within). Woe for my hapless lot!

OLD M. Hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came A moaning cry, as of some maid within.

OR. Can it be poor Electra? Shall we stay, And list again the lamentable sound?

OLD M. Not so. Before all else begin the attempt To execute Apollo's sovereign will, Pouring libation to thy sire: this makes Victory ours, and our success assured. [Exeunt

Enter ELECTRA.

MONODY.

EL. O purest light! And air by earth alone Measured and limitable, how oft have ye Heard many a piercing moan, Many a blow full on my bleeding breast, When gloomy night Hath slackened pace and yielded to the day! And through the hours of rest, Ah! well 'tis known To my sad pillow in yon house of woe, What vigil of scant joyance keeping, Whiles all within are sleeping, For my dear father without stint I groan, Whom not in bloody fray The War-god in the stranger-land Received with hospitable hand, But she that is my mother, and her groom, As woodmen fell the oak, Cleft through the skull with murdering stroke. And o'er this gloom No ray of pity, save from only me, Goes forth on thee, My father, who didst die A cruel death of piteous agony. But ne'er will I Cease from my crying and sad mourning lay, While I behold the sky, Glancing with myriad fires, or this fair day. But, like some brood-bereaved nightingale, With far-heard wail, Here at my father's door my voice shall sound. O home beneath the ground! Hades unseen, and dread Persephone, And darkling Hermes, and the Curse revered, And ye, Erinyes, of mortals feared, Daughters of Heaven, that ever see Who die unjustly, who are wronged i' the bed Of those they wed, Avenge our father's murder on his foe! Aid us, and send my brother to my side; Alone I cannot longer bide The oppressive strain of strength-o'ermastering woe.

CHORUS (entering). O sad Electra, child I 1 Of a lost mother, why still flow Unceasingly with lamentation wild For him who through her treachery beguiled, Inveigled by a wife's deceit, Fallen at the foul adulterer's feet, Most impiously was quelled long years ago? Perish the cause! if I may lawfully pray so.

EL. O daughters of a noble line, Ye come to soothe me from my troublous woe. I see, I know: Your love is not unrecognized of mine. But yet I will not seem as I forgot, Or cease to mourn my hapless father's lot. Oh, of all love That ever may you move, This only boon I crave— Leave me to rave!

CH. Lament, nor praying breath I 2 Will raise thy sire, our honoured chief, From that dim multitudinous gulf of death. Beyond the mark, due grief that measureth, Still pining with excess of pain Thou urgest lamentation vain, That from thy woes can bring thee no relief. Why hast thou set thy heart on unavailing grief?

EL. Senseless were he who lost from thought A noble father, lamentably slain! I love thy strain, Bewildered mourner, bird divinely taught, For 'Itys,' 'Itys,' ever heard to pine. O Niobe, I hold thee all divine, Of sorrows queen, Who with all tearful mien Insepulchred in stone Aye makest moan.

CH. Not unto thee alone hath sorrow come, II 1 Daughter, that thou shouldst carry grief so far Beyond those dwellers in the palace-home Who of thy kindred are And own one source with thee. What life hath she, Chrysothemis, and Iphianassa bright, And he whose light Is hidden afar from taste of horrid doom, Youthful Orestes, who shall come To fair Mycenae's glorious town, Welcomed as worthy of his sire's renown, Sped by great Zeus with kindly thought, And to this land with happiest omen brought?

EL. Awaiting him I endlessly endure; Unwed and childless still I go, With tears in constant flow, Girt round with misery that finds no cure. But he forgets his wrong and all my teaching. What message have I sent beseeching, But baffled flies back idly home? Ever he longs, he saith, but, longing, will not come.

CH. Take heart, dear child! still mighty in the sky II 2 Is Zeus who ruleth all things and surveys. Commit to him thy grief that surgeth high, And walk in safer ways, Let not hate vex thee sore, Nor yet ignore The cause of hate and sorrow in thy breast. Time bringeth rest: All is made easy through his power divine. The heir of Agamemnon's line Who dwells by Crisa's pastoral strand Shall yet return unto his native land; And he shall yet regard his own Who reigns beneath upon his Stygian throne.

EL. Meanwhile my life falls from me in despair Years pass and patience nought avails: My heart within me fails: Orphaned I pine without protecting care; And like a sojourner all unregarded At slave-like labour unrewarded I toil within my father's hall Thus meanly attired, and starved, a table-serving thrall.

CH. Sad was thy greeting when he reached the strand, III 1 Piteous thy crying where thy father lay On that fell day When the bronze edge with dire effect was driven. By craft 'twas planned, By frenzied lust the blow was given: Mother and father of a monstrous birth, Whether a God there wrought or mortal of the Earth.

EL. O day beyond all days that yet have rolled Most hateful in thy course of light! O horror of that night! O hideous feast, abhorr'd, not to be told! How could I bear it, when my father's eye Saw death advancing from the ruthless pair, Conjoint in cruel villany, By whom my life was plunged in black despair? Oh, to the workers of such deeds as these May great Olympus' Lord Return of evil still afford, Nor let them wear the gloss of sovran ease!

CH. Take thought to keep thy crying within bound. III 2 Doth not thy sense enlighten thee to see How recklessly Even now thou winnest undeserved woe? Still art thou found To make thy misery overflow Through self-bred gloomy strife. But not for long Shall one alone prevail who strives against the strong.

EL. 'Twas dire oppression taught me my complaint I know my rage a quenchless fire: But nought, however dire, Shall visit this my frenzy with restraint, Or check my lamentation while I live. Dear friends, kind women of true Argive breed, Say, who can timely counsel give Or word of comfort suited to my need? Beyond all cure shall this my cause be known. No counsels more! Ah leave, Vain comforters, and let me grieve With ceaseless pain, unmeasured in my moan.

CH. With kind intent IV Full tenderly my words are meant; Like a true mother pressing heart to heart, I pray thee, do not aggravate thy smart.

EL. But have my miseries a measure? Tell. Can it be well To pour forgetfulness upon the dead? Hath mortal head Conceived a wickedness so bold? O never may such brightness shine for me, Nor let me peaceful be With aught of good my life may still enfold, If from wide echoing of my father's name The wings of keen lament I must withhold. Sure holy shame And pious care would vanish among men, If he, mere earth and nothingness, must lie In darkness, and his foes shall not again Render him blood for blood in amplest penalty.

LEADER OF CH. Less from our own desires, my child, we came, Than for thy sake. But, if we speak amiss, Take thine own course. We still will side with thee.

EL. Full well I feel that too impatiently I seem to multiply the sounds of woe. Yet suffer me, dear women! Mighty force Compels me. Who that had a noble heart And saw her father's cause, as I have done, By day and night more outraged, could refrain? Are my woes lessening? Are they not in bloom?— My mother full of hate and hateful proved, Whilst I in my own home must dwell with these, My father's murderers, and by them be ruled, Dependent on their bounty even for bread. And then what days suppose you I must pass, When I behold Aegisthus on the throne That was my father's; when I see him wear Such robes, and pour libations by the hearth Where he destroyed him; lastly, when I see Their crowning insolence,—our regicide Laid in my father's chamber beside her, My mother—if she still must bear the name When resting in those arms? Her shame is dead. She harbours with blood-guiltiness, and fears No vengeance, but, as laughing at the wrong, She watches for the hour wherein with guile She killed our sire, and orders dance and mirth That day o' the month, and joyful sacrifice Of thanksgiving. But I within the house Beholding, weep and pine, and mourn that feast Of infamy, called by my father's name, All to myself; for not even grief may flow As largely as my spirit would desire. That so-called princess of a noble race O'ercrows my wailing with loud obloquy: 'Hilding! are you alone in grief? Are none Mourning for loss of fathers but yourself? 'Fore the blest Gods! ill may you thrive, and ne'er Find cure of sorrow from the powers below!' So she insults: unless she hear one say 'Orestes will arrive': then standing close, She shouts like one possessed into mine ear, 'These are your doings, this your work, I trow. You stole Orestes from my gripe, and placed His life with fosterers; but you shall pay Full penalty.' So harsh is her exclaim. And he at hand, the husband she extols, Hounds on the cry, that prince of cowardice, From head to foot one mass of pestilent harm. Tongue-doughty champion of this women's-war. I, for Orestes ever languishing To end this, am undone. For evermore Intending, still delaying, he wears out All hope, both here and yonder. How, then, friends, Can I be moderate, or feel the touch Of holy resignation? Evil fruit Cannot but follow on a life of ill.

CH. Say, is Aegisthus near while thus you speak? Or hath he left the palace? We would know.

EL. Most surely. Never think, if he were by, I could stray out of door. He is abroad.

CH. Then with less fear I may converse with thee.

EL. Ask what you will, for he is nowhere near.

CH. First of thy brother I beseech thee tell, How deem'st thou? Will he come, or still delay?

EL. His promise comes, but still performance sleeps.

CH. Well may he pause who plans a dreadful deed.

EL. I paused not in his rescue from the sword.

CH. Fear not. He will bestead you. He is true.

EL. But for that faith my life had soon gone by.

CH. No more! I see approaching from the house Thy sister by both parents of thy blood, Chrysothemis; in her hand an offering, Such as old custom yields to those below.

Enter CHRYSOTHEMIS.

CHRYSOTHEMIS. What converse keeps thee now beyond the gates, Dear sister? why this talk in the open day? Wilt thou not learn after so long to cease From vain indulgence of a bootless rage? I know in my own breast that I am pained By what thou griev'st at, and if I had power, My censure of their deeds would soon be known. But in misfortune I have chosen to sail With lowered canvas, rather than provoke With puny strokes invulnerable foes. I would thou didst the like: though I must own The right is on thy side, and not on mine. But if I mean to dwell at liberty, I must obey in all the stronger will.

EL. 'Tis strange and pitiful, thy father's child Can leave him in oblivion and subserve The mother. All thy schooling of me springs From her suggestion, not of thine own wit. Sure, either thou art senseless, or thy sense Deserts thy friends. Treason or dulness then? Choose!—You declared but now, if you had strength, You would display your hatred of this pair. Yet, when I plan full vengeance for my sire, You aid me not, but turn me from the attempt. What's this but adding cowardice to evil? For tell me, or be patient till I show, What should I gain by ceasing this my moan? I live to vex them:—though my life be poor, Yet that suffices, for I honour him, My father,—if affection touch the dead. You say you hate them, but belie your word, Consorting with our father's murderers. I then, were all the gifts in which you glory Laid at my feet, will never more obey This tyrant power. I leave you your rich board And life of luxury. Ne'er be it mine[2] to feed On dainties that would poison my heart's peace! I care not for such honour as thou hast. Nor wouldst thou care if thou wert wise. But now, Having the noblest of all men for sire, Be called thy mother's offspring; so shall most Discern thine infamy and traitorous mind To thy dead father and thy dearest kin.

CH. No anger, we entreat. Both have said well, If each would learn of other, and so do.

CHR. For my part, women, use hath seasoned me To her discourse. Nor had I spoken of this, Had I not heard a horror coming on That will restrain her from her endless moan.

EL. Come speak it forth, this terror! I will yield, If thou canst tell me worse than I endure.

CHR. I'll tell thee all I know. If thou persist In these thy wailings, they will send thee far From thine own land, and close thee from the day, Where in a rock-hewn chamber thou may'st chant Thine evil orisons in darkness drear. Think of it, while there 's leisure to reflect; Or if thou suffer, henceforth blame me not.

EL. And have they so determined on my life?

CHR. 'Tis certain; when Aegisthus comes again.

EL. If that be all, let him return with speed!

CHR. Unhappy! why this curse upon thyself?

EL. If this be their intent, why, let him come!

CHR. To work such harm on thee! What thought is this!

EL. Far from mine eye to banish all your brood.

CHR. Art not more tender of the life thou hast?

EL. Fair, to a marvel, is my life, I trow!

CHR. It would be, couldst thou be advised for good.

EL. Never advise me to forsake my kin.

CHR. I do not: only to give place to power.

EL. Thine be such flattery. 'Tis not my way.

CHR. Sure, to be wrecked by rashness is not well.

EL. Let me be wrecked in 'venging my own sire.

CHR. I trust his pardon for my helplessness.

EL. Such talk hath commendation from the vile.

CHR. Wilt thou not listen? Wilt thou ne'er be ruled?

EL. No; not by thee! Let me not sink so low.

CHR. Then I will hie me on mine errand straight.

EL. Stay; whither art bound? For whom to spend those gifts?

CHR. Sent by my mother to my father's tomb To pour libations to him.

EL. How? To him? Most hostile to her of all souls that are?

CHR. Who perished by her hand—so thou wouldst say.

EL. What friend hath moved her? Who hath cared for this?

CHR. Methinks 'twas some dread vision, seen by night.

EL. Gods of my father, O be with me now!

CHR. What? art thou hopeful from the fear I spake of?

EL. Tell me the dream, and I will answer thee.

CHR. I know but little of it.

EL. Speak but that. A little word hath ofttimes been the cause Of ruin or salvation unto men.

CHR. 'Tis said she saw our father's spirit come Once more to visit the abodes of light; Then take and firmly plant upon the hearth The sceptre which he bore of old, and now Aegisthus bears: and out of this upsprang A burgeoned shoot, that shadowed all the ground Of loved Mycenae. So I heard the tale Told by a maid who listened when the Queen Made known her vision to the God of Day. But more than this I know not, save that I Am sent by her through terror of the dream. And I beseech thee by the Gods we serve To take my counsel and not rashly fall. If thou repel me now, the time may come When suffering shall have brought thee to my side.

EL. Now, dear Chrysothemis, of what thou bearest Let nothing touch his tomb. 'Tis impious And criminal to offer to thy sire Rites and libations from a hateful wife. Then cast them to the winds, or deep in dust Conceal them, where no particle may reach His resting-place: but lie in store for her When she goes underground. Sure, were she not Most hardened of all women that have been, She ne'er had sent those loveless offerings To grace the sepulchre of him she slew. For think how likely is the buried king To take such present kindly from her hand, Who slew him like an alien enemy, Dishonoured even in death, and mangled him, And wiped the death-stain with his flowing locks— Sinful purgation! Think you that you bear In those cold gifts atonement for her guilt? It is not possible. Wherefore let be. But take a ringlet from thy comely head, And this from mine, that lingers on my brow[3] Longing to shade his tomb. Ah, give it to him, All I can give, and this my maiden-zone, Not daintily adorned, as once erewhile. Then, humbly kneeling, pray that from the ground He would arise to help us 'gainst his foes, And grant his son Orestes with high hand Strongly to trample on his enemies; That in our time to come from ampler stores We may endow him, than are ours to-day. I cannot but imagine that his will Hath part in visiting her sleep with fears. But howsoe'er, I pray thee, sister mine, Do me this service, and thyself, and him, Dearest of all the world to me and thee, The father of us both, who rests below.

CH. She counsels piously; and thou, dear maid, If thou art wise, wilt do her bidding here.

CHR. Yea, when a thing is right, it is not well Idly to wrangle, but to act with speed. Only, dear friends, in this mine enterprise, Let me have silence from your lips, I pray; For should my mother know of it, sharp pain Will follow yet my bold adventurous feat. [Exit CHRYSOTHEMIS

CHORUS. An erring seer am I, I 1 Of sense and wisdom lorn, If this prophetic Power of right, O'ertaking the offender, come not nigh Ere many an hour be born. Yon vision of the night, That lately breathed into my listening ear, Hath freed me, O my daughter, from all fear. Sweet was that bodement. He doth not forget, The Achaean lord that gave thee being, nor yet The bronzen-griding axe, edged like a spear, Hungry and keen, though dark with stains of time, That in the hour of hideous crime Quelled him with cruel butchery: That, too, remembers, and shall testify.

From ambush deep and dread I 2 With power of many a hand And many hastening feet shall spring The Fury of the adamantine tread, Visiting Argive land Swift recompense to bring For eager dalliance of a blood-stained pair Unhallowed, foul, forbidden. No omen fair,— Their impious course hath fixed this in my soul,— Nought but black portents full of blame shall roll Before their eyes that wrought or aided there. Small force of divination would there seem In prophecy or solemn dream, Should not this vision of the night Reach harbour in reality aright.

O chariot-course of Pelops, full of toil[4]! II How wearisome and sore Hath been thine issue to our native soil!— Since, from the golden oar Hurled to the deep afar, Myrtilus sank and slept, Cruelly plucked from that fell chariot-floor, This house unceasingly hath kept Crime and misfortune mounting evermore.

Enter CLYTEMNESTRA.

CLYTEMNESTRA. Again you are let loose and range at will. Ay, for Aegisthus is not here, who barred Your rashness from defaming your own kin Beyond the gates. But now he's gone from home, You heed not me: though you have noised abroad That I am bold in crime, and domineer Outrageously, oppressing thee and thine. I am no oppressor, but I speak thee ill, For thou art ever speaking ill of me— Still holding forth thy father's death, that I Have done it. So I did: I know it well: That I deny not; for not I alone But Justice slew him; and if you had sense, To side with Justice ought to be your part. For who but he of all the Greeks, your sire, For whom you whine and cry, who else but he Took heart to sacrifice unto the Gods Thy sister?—having less of pain, I trow, In getting her, than I, that bore her, knew! Come, let me question thee! On whose behalf Slew he my child? Was 't for the Argive host? What right had they to traffic in my flesh?— Menelaues was his brother. Wilt thou say He slew my daughter for his brother's sake? How then should he escape me? Had not he, Menelaues, children twain, begotten of her Whom to reclaim that army sailed to Troy? Was Death then so enamoured of my seed, That he must feast thereon and let theirs live? Or was the God-abandoned father's heart Tender toward them and cruel to my child? Doth this not argue an insensate sire? I think so, though your wisdom may demur. And could my lost one speak, she would confirm it. For my part, I can dwell on what I have done Without regret. You, if you think me wrong, Bring reasons forth and blame me to my face!

EL. Thou canst not say this time that I began And brought this on me by some taunting word. But, so you'd suffer me, I would declare The right both for my sister and my sire.

CLY. Thou hast my sufferance. Nor would hearing vex, If ever thus you tuned your speech to me.

EL. Then I will speak. You say you slew him. Where Could there be found confession more depraved, Even though the cause were righteous? But I'll prove No rightful vengeance drew thee to the deed, But the vile bands of him you dwell with now. Or ask the huntress Artemis, what sin She punished, when she tied up all the winds Round Aulis.—I will tell thee, for her voice Thou ne'er may'st hear! 'Tis rumoured that my sire, Sporting within the goddess' holy ground, His foot disturbed a dappled hart, whose death Drew from his lips some rash and boastful word. Wherefore Latona's daughter in fell wrath Stayed the army, that in quittance for the deer My sire should slay at the altar his own child. So came her sacrifice. The Achaean fleet Had else no hope of being launched to Troy Nor to their homes. Wherefore, with much constraint And painful urging of his backward will, Hardly he yielded;—not for his brother's sake. But grant thy speech were sooth, and all were done In aid of Menelaues; for this cause Hadst thou the right to slay him? What high law Ordaining? Look to it, in establishing Such precedent thou dost not lay in store Repentance for thyself. For if by right One die for one, thou first wilt be destroyed If Justice find thee.—But again observe The hollowness of thy pretended plea. Tell me, I pray, what cause thou dost uphold In doing now the basest deed of all, Chambered with the blood-guilty, with whose aid Thou slewest our father in that day. For him You now bear children—ousting from their right The stainless offspring of a holy sire. How should this plead for pardon? Wilt thou say Thus thou dost 'venge thy daughter's injury? O shameful plea? Where is the thought of honour, If foes are married for a daughter's sake?— Enough. No words can move thee. Thy rash tongue With checkless clamour cries that we revile Our mother. Nay, no mother, but the chief Of tyrants to us! For my life is full Of weariness and misery from thee And from thy paramour. While he abroad, Orestes, our one brother, who escaped Hardly from thy attempt, unhappy boy! Wears out his life, victim of cross mischance. Oft hast thou taunted me with fostering him To be thy punisher. And this, be sure, Had I but strength, I had done. Now for this word, Proclaim me what thou wilt,—evil in soul, Or loud in cursing, or devoid of shame: For if I am infected with such guilt, Methinks my nature is not fallen from thine.

CH. (looking at CLYTEMNESTRA). I see her fuming with fresh wrath: the thought Of justice enters not her bosom now.

CLY. What thought of justice should be mine for her, Who at her age can so insult a mother? Will shame withhold her from the wildest deed?

EL. Not unashamed, assure thee, I stand here, Little as thou mayest deem it. Well I feel My acts untimely and my words unmeet. But your hostility and treatment force me Against my disposition to this course. Harsh ways are taught by harshness.

CLY. Brazen thing! Too true it is that words and deeds of mine Are evermore informing thy harsh tongue.

EL. The shame is yours, because the deeds are yours. My words are but their issue and effect.

CLY. By sovereign Artemis, whom still I serve, You'll rue this boldness when Aegisthus comes.

EL. See now, your anger bears you off, and ne'er Will let you listen, though you gave me leave.

CLY. Must I not even sacrifice in peace From your harsh clamour, when you've had your say?

EL. I have done. I check thee not. Go, sacrifice! Accuse not me of hindering piety.

CLY. (to an attendant). Then lift for me those fruitful offerings, While to Apollo, before whom we stand, I raise my supplication for release From doubts and fears that shake my bosom now. And, O defender of our house! attend My secret utterance. No friendly ear Is that which hearkens for my voice. My thought Must not be blazoned with her standing by, Lest through her envious and wide-babbling tongue She fill the city full of wild surmise. List, then, as I shall speak: and grant the dreams Whose two-fold apparition I to-night Have seen, if good their bodement, be fulfilled: If hostile, turn their influence on my foes. And yield not them their wish that would by guile Thrust me from this high fortune, but vouchsafe That ever thus exempt from harms I rule The Atridae's home and kingdom, in full life, Partaking with the friends I live with now All fair prosperity, and with my children, Save those who hate and vex me bitterly. Lykeian Phoebus, favourably hear My prayer, and grant to all of us our need! More is there, which, though I be silent here, A God should understand. No secret thing Is hidden from the all-seeing sons of Heaven.

Enter the Old Man.

OLD M. Kind dames and damsels, may I clearly know If these be King Aegisthus' palace-halls?

CH. They are, sir; you yourself have guessed aright.

OLD M. May I guess further that in yonder dame I see his queen? She looks right royally.

CH. 'Tis she,—no other,—whom your eyes behold.

OLD M. Princess, all hail! To thee and to thy spouse I come with words of gladness from a friend.

CLY. That auspice I accept. But I would first Learn from thee who of men hath sent thee forth?

OLD M. Phanoteus the Phocian, with a charge of weight.

CLY. Declare it, stranger. Coming from a friend, Thou bring'st us friendly tidings, I feel sure.

OLD M. Orestes' death. Ye have the sum in brief.

EL. Ah me! undone! This day hath ruined me.

CLY. What? Let me hear again. Regard her not.

OLD M. Again I say it, Orestes is no more.

EL. Undone! undone! Farewell to life and hope!

CLY. (to ELECTRA). See thou to thine own case! (To Old Man) Now, stranger, tell me In true discourse the manner of his death.

OLD M. For that I am here, and I will tell the whole. He, entering on the great arena famed As Hellas' pride, to win a Delphian prize, On hearing the loud summons of the man Calling the foot-race, which hath trial first, Came forward, a bright form, admired by all. And when his prowess in the course fulfilled The promise of his form, he issued forth Dowered with the splendid meed of victory.— To tell a few out of the many feats Of such a hero were beyond my power. Know then, in brief, that of the prizes set For every customary course proclaimed By order of the judges, the whole sum Victoriously he gathered, happy deemed By all; declared an Argive, and his name Orestes, son of him who levied once The mighty armament of Greeks for Troy. So fared he then: but when a God inclines To hinder happiness, not even the strong Are scatheless. So, another day, when came At sunrise the swift race of charioteers, He entered there with many a rival car:— One from Achaia, one from Sparta, two Libyan commanders of the chariot-yoke; And he among them fifth, with steeds of price From Thessaly;—the sixth Aetolia sent With chestnut mares; the seventh a Magnete man; The eighth with milk-white colts from Oeta's vale; The ninth from god-built Athens; and the tenth Boeotia gave to make the number full. Then stood they where the judges of the course Had posted them by lot, each with his team; And sprang forth at the brazen trumpet's blare. Shouting together to their steeds, they shook The reins, and all the course was filled with noise Of rattling chariots, and the dust arose To heaven. Now all in a confused throng Spared not the goad, each eager to outgo The crowded axles and the snorting steeds; For close about his nimbly circling wheels And stooping sides fell flakes of panted foam. Orestes, ever nearest at the turn, With whirling axle seemed to graze the stone, And loosing with free rein the right-hand steed That pulled the side-rope[5], held the near one in. So for a time all chariots upright moved, But soon the Oetaean's hard-mouthed horses broke From all control, and wheeling as they passed From the sixth circuit to begin the seventh, Smote front to front against the Barcan car. And when that one disaster had befallen, Each dashed against his neighbour and was thrown, Till the whole plain was strewn with chariot-wreck. Then the Athenian, skilled to ply the rein, Drew on one side, and heaving to, let pass The rider-crested surge that rolled i' the midst. Meanwhile Orestes, trusting to the end, Was driving hindmost with tight rein; but now, Seeing him left the sole competitor, Hurling fierce clamour through his steeds, pursued: So drave they yoke by yoke—now this, now that Pulling ahead with car and team. Orestes, Ill-fated one, each previous course had driven Safely without a check, but after this, In letting loose again the left-hand rein[6], He struck the edge of the stone before he knew, Shattering the axle's end, and tumbled prone, Caught in the reins[7], that dragged him with sharp thongs. Then as he fell to the earth the horses swerved, And roamed the field. The people when they saw Him fallen from out the car, lamented loud For the fair youth, who had achieved before them Such glorious feats, and now had found such woe,— Dashed on the ground, then tossed with legs aloft Against the sky,—until the charioteers, Hardly restraining the impetuous team, Released him, covered so with blood that none,— No friend who saw—had known his hapless form. Which then we duly burned upon the pyre. And straightway men appointed to the task From all the Phocians bear his mighty frame— Poor ashes! narrowed in a brazen urn,— That he may find in his own fatherland His share of sepulture.—Such our report, Painful to hear, but unto us, who saw, The mightiest horror that e'er met mine eye.

CH. Alas! the stock of our old masters, then, Is utterly uprooted and destroyed.

CLY. O heavens! what shall I say? That this is well? Or terrible, but gainful? Hard my lot, To save my life through my calamity!

OLD M. Lady, why hath my speech disheartened thee?

CLY. To be a mother hath a marvellous power: No injury can make one hate one's child.

OLD M. Then it should seem our coming was in vain.

CLY. In vain? Nay, verily; thou, that hast brought Clear evidences of his fate, who, sprung Prom my life's essence, severed from my breast And nurture, was estranged in banishment, And never saw me from the day he went Out from this land, but for his father's blood Threatened me still with accusation dire; That sleep nor soothed at night nor sweetly stole My senses from the day, but, all my time, Each instant led me on the way to death!— But this day's chance hath freed me from all fear Of him, and of this maid: who being at home Troubled me more, and with unmeasured thirst Kept draining my life-blood; but now her threats Will leave us quiet days, methinks, and peace Unbroken.—How then shouldst thou come in vain?

EL. O misery! 'Tis time to wail thy fate, Orestes, when, in thy calamity, Thy mother thus insults thee. Is it well?

CLY. 'Tis well that he is gone, not that you live.

EL. Hear, 'venging spirits of the lately dead!

CLY. The avenging spirits have heard and answered well.

EL. Insult us now, for thou art fortunate!

CLY. You and Orestes are to quench my pride.

EL. Our pride is quenched. No hope of quenching thee!

CLY. A world of good is in thy coming, stranger, Since thou hast silenced this all-clamorous tongue.

OLD M. Then I may go my way, seeing all is well.

CLY. Nay, go not yet! That would disgrace alike Me and the friend who sent you to our land. But come thou in, and leave her out of door To wail her own and loved ones' overthrow. [Exeunt CLYTEMNESTRA and Old Man

EL. Think you the wretch in heartfelt agony Weeps inconsolably her perished son? She left us with a laugh! O misery! How thou hast ruined me, dear brother mine, By dying! Thou hast torn from out my heart The only hope I cherished yet, that thou Living wouldst come hereafter to avenge Thy father's woes and mine. Where must I go? Since I am left of thee and of my sire Bereaved and lonely, and once more must be The drudge and menial of my bitterest foes, My father's murderers. Say, is it well? Nay, nevermore will I consort with these, But sinking here before the palace gate, Thus, friendless, I will wither out my life. Hereat if any in the house be vexed, Let them destroy me; for to take my life Were kindness, and to live is only pain: Life hath not kindled my desires with joy.

CH. 1. O ever-blazing sun! I 1 O lightning of the eternal Sire! Can ye behold this done And tamely hide your all-avenging fire?

EL. Ah me!

CH. 2. My daughter, why these tears?

EL. Woe!

CH. 3. Weep not, calm thy fears.

EL. You kill me.

CH. 4. How?

EL. To breathe A hope for one beneath So clearly sunk in death, 'Tis to afflict me more Already pining sore.