_Orest._ I, taught by troubles, know full many a form Of cleansing rites,—to speak, when that is meet, And when 'tis not, keep silence, and in this I by wise teacher was enjoined to speak; For the blood fails and fades from off my hands; The guilt of matricide is washed away. 270 For when 'twas fresh, it then was all dispelled, At Phœbos' shrine, by spells of slaughtered swine. Long would the story be, if told complete, Of all I joined in harmless fellowship. Time waxing old, too, cleanses all alike: And now with pure lips, I in words devout, Call Athenæa, whom this land owns queen, To come and help me: So without a war Shall she gain me, my land, my Argive people, 280 Full faithful friends, allies for evermore;[492] But whether in the climes of Libyan land, Hard by her birth-stream's foam, Tritonian named,[493] She stands upright, or sits with feet enwrapt, Helping her friends, or o'er Phlegræan plains, Like a bold chieftain, she keeps watchful guard,[494] Oh, may she come! (far off a God can hear,) And work for me redemption from these ills! _Chor._ Nay, nor Apollo, nor Athena's might Can save thee from the doom of perishing, 290 Outcast, not knowing where to look for joy, The bloodless food of demons, a mere shade. Wilt thou not answer? Scornest thou my words, A victim reared and consecrate to me? Alive thou'lt feed me, not at altar slain; And thou shalt hear our hymn as spell to bind thee. _The Erinnyes, as they sing the ode that follows, move round and round in solemn and weird measure_ Come, then, let us form our chorus; Since 'tis now our will to utter Melody or song most hateful, Telling how our band assigneth All the lots that fall to mortals; 300 And we boast that we are righteous: Not on one who pure hands lifteth Falleth from us any anger, But his life he passeth scatheless; But to him who sins like this man, And his blood-stained hands concealeth, Witnesses of those who perish, Coming to exact blood-forfeit, We appear to work completeness. 310 STROPHE I O mother who did'st bear me, mother Night, A terror of the living and the dead, Hear me, oh hear! The son of Leto puts me to disgrace And robs me of my spoil, This crouching victim for a mother's blood: And over him as slain, We raise this chant of madness, frenzy-working,[495] The hymn the Erinnyes love, A spell upon the soul, a lyreless strain That withers up men's strength. ANTISTROPHE I