_Chor._ Of blessings more than golden, O my child, Greater than greatest fortune, or the bliss Of those beyond the North[425] thou speakest now; For this is in thy grasp; But hold; e'en now this thud of double scourge[426] Finds its way on to him; Already these find helpers 'neath the earth, But of those rulers whom we loathe and hate Unholy are the hands: 370 And children gain the day. STROPHE IV _Elect._ Ah! this, like arrow, pierces through the ear! O Zeus! O Zeus! who sendest from below A woe of tardy doom Upon the bold and subtle hands of men.... Nay, though they parents be, Yet all shall be fulfilled. STROPHE V _Chor._ May it be mine to chant o'er funeral pyre *Cry well accordant with the pine-fed blaze,[427] When first the man is slain, And his wife perisheth! 380 Why should I hide what flutters round my heart? On my heart's prow a blast blows mightily, Keen wrath and loathing fierce. ANTISTROPHE IV _Orest._ And when shall Zeus, the orphan's guardian true, Lay to his hand and smite the guilty heads? So may our land learn faith! Vengeance I claim from those who did the wrong. 390 Hear me, O Earth, and ye, *Powers held in awe below! _Chor._ Yea, the law saith that gory drops once shed Upon the ground for yet more blood should crave; *For lo! fell slaughter on Erinnys calls, To come from those that perished long ago, And on one sorrow other sorrow bring. STROPHE VI _Elect._ *Ah, ah, O Earth, and Lords of those below! Behold, ye mighty Curses of the slain, Behold the remnant of the Atreidæ's house Brought to extremest strait, 400 Bereaved of house and home! Whither, O Zeus, can any turn for help? ANTISTROPHE V _Chor._ Ah, my fond heart is quivering in dismay, *Hearing this loud lament most lamentable: Now have I little cheer, And blackened is my heart, *Hearing that speech; but then again when hope *On strength uplifts me, far it drives my grief, *Propitious seen at last. ANTISTROPHE VI _Orest._ What could we speak more fitly than the woes 410 We suffer, yea, and from a parent's hands? Well, she may fawn; our mood remains unsoothed; For like a wolf untamed, We from our mother take A wrathful soul that to no fawning yields. STROPHE VII