Would that in ancient days, Father, some Lycian lance Had slain thee by Ilion’s wall; Then hadst thou left great praise In thy House, and thy children’s glance In the streets were marked of all: Men had upreared for thee A high-piled burial hill In a land beyond the sea; And the House could have borne its ill.
Leader: Antistrophe 2
And all they who nobly died Would have loved him in that place, And observed him in his pride As he passed with royal pace To a throne at the right hand Of the Kings of the Dark Land: For a king he was when living, Above all who crownèd stand With the sceptre of lawgiving.
Electra: Antistrophe 3
Nay, would thou hadst died not ever! Not by the Ilian Gate, Not when the others fell Spear-broken beside the river! If they who wrought thee hate Had died, it had all been well: A strange death, full of fear, That the folk beyond far seas Should enquire thereof, and hear; Not of our miseries!
Chorus: My daughter, rare as gold is rare, And blither than the skies behind The raging of the northern wind Are these thy prayers: for what is prayer? Yet, be thou sure, this twofold scourge Is heard: it pierceth to the verge Of darkness, and your helpers now Are wakening. These encharioted Above us, lo, their hand is red! Abhorrèd are they by the dead; But none so hates as he and thou!
Orestes: Strophe 4
Ah me, that word, that word Stabbeth my heart, as a sword! God, God, who sendest from below Blind vengeance in the wake Of sin, what deed have I to do, With hand most weak and full of woe? ’Tis for my father’s sake!
Leader: Strophe 5
May it be mine, may it be mine, To dance about the blazing pine Crying, crying, “A man is slain, a woman dying!” It hideth in my bosom’s core, It beats its wings for death, for death, A bitter wind that blows before The prow, a hate that festereth, A thing of horror, yet divine!
Electra: Antistrophe 4
Zeus of the orphan, when Wilt lift thy hand among men? Let the land have a sign. Be strong, And smite the neck from the head. I ask for right after much wrong. Hear me, O God! Hark to my song, Ye Princedoms of the Dead!
Chorus: ’Tis written: the shed drop doth crave For new blood. Yea, the murdered cry Of dead men shrieketh from the grave To Her who out of sins gone by Makes new sin, that the old may die.
Orestes: Strophe 6
How? Are ye dumb, Ye Princedoms of the Dead? O Curses of Them that perish, come hither, hither! Look on this wreck of kings, the beaten head, Bowed in despair, roofless, disherited! Whither to turn, O Lord Zeus? Whither, whither?
Leader: Antistrophe 5
My heart, my heart is tossed again To see thee yielded up to pain, Failing, failing; Then mist is on my eyes and wailing About mine ears, and tears as rain. But when once more I look on thee With power exalted, sudden-swift A hope doth all my burden lift, And light, and signs of things to be.
Electra: Antistrophe 6
What best shall pierce thine ear; the wrongs she wrought, Wrought upon us, upon us, she and none other? Oh, fawn and smile: but the wrongs shall soften not, Wrongs with a wolfish heart, by a wolf begot: They see no smile, they reck not the name of Mother!
Chorus: Strophe 7
With the dirge of Agbatana I beat my breast: Like the Keeners of Kissia, I make songs of pain. Lo, yearning of arms abundant, east and west: Tearing they smite, again and yet again, From above, from high; yea, God hath smitten red This bitter bleeding bosom, this bended head.
Electra: Strophe 8
Ho, Mother! Ho, thou, Mother, Mine enemy, daring all! What burial made ye here? His people followed not, Mourned him not, knew him not: Enemies bare his pall: His wife shed no tear!
Orestes: Strophe 9
All, all dishonour, so thy story telleth it! And for that dishonour shall the woman pay, As the gods have willed it, as my right hand willeth it! Then Death may take me, let me only slay!