The scene represents the Grave of Agamemnon, a mound of earth in a desolate expanse. The time is afternoon. Orestes and Pylades in the garb of travellers, with swords at their sides, are discovered. Orestes’ hair is cut short, that of Pylades streams down his back. Both look grim and travel-stained. Orestes holds a long tress of hair in his hand.
Orestes: O Warder Hermês of the world beneath, Son of the Father who is Lord of Death; Saviour, be thou my saviour; Help in War, Help me! I am returned from lands afar To claim mine own. And on this headland steep Of death, I call my Father o’er the deep To hearken, to give ear.—Behold, I bring Out of my poverty one little thing, To adorn thy grave, though who can touch the dead
Or wake from sleep that unuplifted head? Yet long ago in Phôkis, where I lay With Strophius in the hills, being cast away In childhood, plundered by mine enemies, And friendless, save for this man, Pylades, I sware an oath which should for ever set In memory those they taught me to forget: If once I came to manhood, so I sware, In tresses twain I would divide mine hair,
One tress for Inachos river, by whose grace I live, and one for mourning at this place. Which oath I here fulfil. He lays the tress of hair upon the upper part of the grave mound. O Herald, lay Before his sight the gift I bring this day, Who stood not by to mourn him as he fell, Nor reached mine arms to bid the dead farewell. As he turns, he sees the Libation-Bearers approaching. Ha! What sight is this? What stricken multitude Of women here in raiment sable-hued
Far-gleameth? How shall I interpret it? Hath some new death upon my lineage lit? Or is it to my father’s grave they go With offerings, to appease the wrath below? It must be. Surely ’tis Electra there, My sister, moves alone, none like to her In sorrow. Zeus, Oh, grant to me this day My vengeance, and be near me in the fray! Come, Pylades, stand further, till we know
More sure, what means this embassy of woe. Orestes and Pylades withdraw, as Electra with the Chorus of women bearing offerings for the Grave enters from the other side.
Chorus: Strophe 1
Driven, yea, driven I come: I bear Peace-offering to the dead, Mine hands as blades that tear, my tresses riven, And cheek ploughed red. But all my years, before this day as after, Have been fed full with weeping as with bread. And this dumb cry of linen, as in pain, Deep rent about my bosom, speaketh plain Of a life long since wounded, where no laughter Sounds nor shall sound again.
Antistrophe 1
Dread, very dread, And hair upstarting and the wrath that streams From the heart of sleep, have first interpreted What manner of dreams This house hath dreamed; a voice of terror, blasting The midnight, up from the inmost place it grew, Shaking the women’s chambers; and the Seer, Being sworn of God, made answer, there is here Anger of dead men wronged, and hate outlasting Death, against them that slew.
Strophe 2
Craving to fly that curse With graceless gift hither she urgeth me —O Earth, Mother and Nurse!— She whom God hateth. But my spirit fears To speak the word it bears. When blood is spilt, how shall a gift set free? O hearthstone wet with tears! O pillars of a house broken in twain! Without sun, without love, Murk in the heart thereof and mist above, For a lord slain!
Antistrophe 2
The reverence of old years Is gone, which not by battle nor by strife, Stealing through charmèd ears, Lifted the people’s hearts to love their King; Gone, yet the land still fears. For Fortune is a god and rules men’s life. Who knows the great Wheel’s swing, How one is smitten swift in the eyes of light; For one affliction cries Slow from the border of sunset; and one lies In deedless night?
Strophe 3
Has Earth once drunk withal The blood of her child, Man, the avenging stain Hardens, nor flows again. A blind pain draweth the slayer, draweth him, On, on, till he is filled even to the brim With sickness of the soul to atone for all.
Antistrophe 3
The shrine of maidenhood Once broken ne’er may be unbroke again. And where man’s life hath flowed, All the world’s rivers in their multitude Rolling shall strive in vain To clean from a brother’s hand that ancient blood.
For me, God in far days Laid hand upon my city, and herded me From my old home to the House of Slavery, Where all is violence, and I needs must praise, Just or unjust, The pleasure of them that rule, and speechless hold The ache of a heart that rageth in the dust. Only behind the fold Of this still veil for a little I hide my face And weep for the blind doings of this race, And secret tears are in my heart, ice-cold.
Electra: Ye thrallèd women, tirers of the bower, Since ye are with me in this suppliant hour, Your escort giving, give your counsel too. What speech have I for utterance, when I sue With offerings to the dead? What word of love, What prayer to reach my father from above? “To dear Lord,” shall I say, “due gifts I bear From loving mistress” … when they come from her? I dare not. And I cannot find the word
To speak, when offerings like these are poured … Or shall I pray him, as men’s custom is, To send to them who pay these offices Requital due … for murder and for pride? Or, as in silence and in shame he died, In shame and silence shall I pour this urn Of offering to the dust, and pouring turn, As men cast out some foulness they abhor, And fling the cup, and fly, and look no more?
Share with me, Friends, this burden of strange thought. One hate doth make us one. Oh, hide not aught For fear of what may fall us! Destiny Waiteth alike for them that men call free, And them by others mastered. At thine ease Speak, if thou knowest of wiser words than these.
Leader: As at God’s altar, since so fain thou art, Before this Tomb I will unveil my heart.
Electra: Speak, by his grave and in the fear thereof.
Leader: Pray as thou pourest: To all hearts of love …