_Chor._ Ah, children! saviours of your father's house, Hush, hush, lest some one hear you, children dear, And for mere talking's sake report all this To those that rule. Ah, would I might behold them Lie dead 'midst oozing fir-pyre blazing high![416] 260 _Orest._ Nay, nay, I tell you, Loxias' oracle, In strength excelling, will not fail us now, That bade me on this enterprise to start, And with clear voice spake often, warning me Of chilling pain-throes at the fevered heart, Unless my father's murderers I should chase, Bidding me kill them in the self-same fashion, Stirred by the wrongs that pauperise my life, And said that I with many a mischief ill Should pay for that fault with mine own dear life. For making known to men the charms earth-born 270 *That soothe the wrathful powers,[417] he spake for us Of ills as follows, leprous sores that creep All o'er the flesh, and as with cruel jaws Eat out its ancient nature, and white hairs[418] On that foul ill to supervene: and still He spake of other onsets of the Erinnyes, As brought to issue from a father's blood; For the dark weapon of the Gods below Winged by our kindred that lie low in death, And beg for vengeance, yea, and madness too, And vague, dim fears at night disturb and haunt me, *Seeing full clearly, though I move my brow[419] 280 In the thick darkness ... and that then my frame, Thus tortured, should be driven from the city With brass-knobbed scourge: and that for such as I It was not given to share the wine-cup's taste, Nor votive stream in pure libation poured; And that my father's wrath invisible Would drive me from all altars, and that none Should take me in, or lodge with me; at last, That, loathed of all and friendless, I should die, A wretched mummy, all my strength consumed. Must I not trust such oracles as these? Yea, though I trust not, must the deed be done; 290 For many motives now in one converge,— The God's command, great sorrow for my father; My lack of fortune, this, too, urges me Never to leave our noble citizens, With noblest courage Troïa's conquerors, To be the subjects to two women thus; Yea, his soul is as woman's:[420] an' it be not, He soon shall know the issue. _Chor._ Grant ye from Zeus, O mighty Destinies! That so our work may end As Justice wills, who takes our side at last; 300 Now for the tongue of bitter hate let tongue Of bitter hate be given. Loud and long The voice of Vengeance claiming now her debt; And for the murderous blow Let him who slew with murderous blow repay. “That the wrong-doer bear the wrong he did,” Thrice-ancient saying of a far-off time,[421] This speaketh as we speak. STROPHE I