Is it for us, O Seed of Zeus, To speak and hear your words again! CASTOR. Speak: of this blood ye bear no stain. ELECTRA. I also, sons of Tyndareus, My kinsmen; may my word be said? CASTOR. Speak: on Apollo's head we lay The bloody doings of this day. LEADER. Ye Gods, ye brethren of the dead, Why held ye not the deathly herd Of Kêres back from off this home? CASTOR. There came but that which needs must come By ancient Fate and that dark word That rang from Phoebus in his mood. ELECTRA. And what should Phoebus seek with me, Or all God's oracles that be, That I must bear my mother's blood? CASTOR. Thy hand was as thy brother's hand, Thy doom shall be as his. One stain, From dim forefathers on the twain Lighting, hath sapped your hearts as sand. ORESTES (_who has never raised his head, nor spoken to the Gods_). After so long, sister, to see And hold thee, and then part, then part, By all that chained thee to my heart Forsaken, and forsaking thee! CASTOR. Husband and house are hers. She bears No bitter judgment, save to go Exiled from Argos. ELECTRA. And what woe, What tears are like an exile's tears? ORESTES. Exiled and more am I; impure, A murderer in a stranger's hand: CASTOR. Fear not. There dwells in Pallas' land All holiness. Till then endure! [ORESTES _and_ ELECTRA _embrace_ ORESTES. Aye, closer; clasp my body well, And let thy sorrow loose, and shed, As o'er the grave of one new dead, Dead evermore, thy last farewell! [_A sound of weeping_. CASTOR. Alas, what would ye? For that cry Ourselves and all the sons of heaven Have pity. Yea, our peace is riven By the strange pain of these that die. ORESTES. No more to see thee! ELECTRA. Nor thy breath Be near my face! ORESTES. Ah, so it ends. ELECTRA. Farewell, dear Argos. All ye friends, Farewell! ORESTES. O faithful unto death, Thou goest? ELECTRA. Aye, I pass from you, Soft-eyed at last. ORESTES. Go, Pylades, And God go with you! Wed in peace My tall Electra, and be true. [ELECTRA _and_ PYLADES _depart to the left._ CASTOR. Their troth shall fill their hearts.--But on: Dread feet are near thee, hounds of prey, Snake-handed, midnight-visaged, yea, And bitter pains their fruit! Begone! [ORESTES _departs to the right_. But hark, the far Sicilian sea Calls, and a noise of men and ships That labour sunken to the lips In bitter billows; forth go we,