Disaster on disaster came: now one And now another car was overturned And shattered; Crisa's plain was filled with wreck. The skilful charioteer whom Athens sent Then drew aside, slackened his pace and gave The surge of wild confusion room to pass. Last of the train Orestes drove, his steeds Holding in hand, and trusting to the end; But seeing only the Athenian left, With piercing shouts, urging his team to speed, He made for him, and side by side the pair Drove onward, yoke even with yoke, now one And now the other leading by a head. Through all the courses but the last that youth Ill-starred stood safely in an upright car. But at the last, slackening his left-hand rein, As his horse turned the goal, he unawares The pillar struck and broke his axle-tree. Out of the car he rolled, still in the reins Entangled, while his horses, as he fell, Rushed wildly through the middle of the course. The whole assembly, when they saw him fall, Raised a loud cry of horror at the fate Of him that was the hero of the games, Seeing him dragged along the ground, his feet Anon flung skyward; till some charioteers, With much ado, stopping the headlong steeds, Released him, but so mangled that no friend The gory and disfigured corpse would know. They laid him on the funeral pyre, and now Have Phocian envoys in a narrow urn Brought the poor ashes of that mighty frame For sepulture in his ancestral tomb. Such is my story. Sad enough for those Who hear; for those who saw most piteous Of all the sights that e'er these eyes beheld. CHORUS. Alas, alas! it seems the noble stock Of our old Kings is wholly rooted out. CLYTAEMNESTRA. What shall I call this, Zeus? Is it good luck, Or gain with sorrow blended? Sad it is That I should owe my safety to my dole. PAEDAGOGOS. Why art thou downcast, lady, at my words? CLYTAEMNESTRA. Strong is a mother's love; no injury Can make her hate the offspring of her womb. PAEDAGOGOS. My errand then is bootless, as it seems. CLYTAEMNESTRA. Bootless it is not, and it could not be, If thou hast brought me certain evidence That he is dead, who, owing life to me, Rebelled against the breast that suckled him; Who, when self-banished, he had left the land Looked on my face no more; who, charging me With his sire's murder, threatened vengeance dire, So that sweet sleep neither by night nor day Could fold my weary sense, but every hour Passed in the shadow of impending death. Now--since this day doth end my fears from him, And from this maid, whose presence in my home, Draining the very life-blood of my heart, Was to me yet more baneful--now at last Rid of their menaces, we dwell in peace. ELECTRA. Alas, alas! well may we wail for thee, Orestes, when thy mother can exult Over her child's poor ashes. Is this well? CLYTAEMNESTRA. Not well for thee, with him 'tis well enough. ELECTRA. Hear, Nemesis, the prayer of him that's gone. CLYTAEMNESTRA. The right prayer she had heard and ratified. ELECTRA.