CLYTEMNESTRA Heed not thou too highly of them—let the cur-pack growl and yell: I and thou will rule the palace and will order all things well. [_Exeunt_. THE LIBATION-BEARERS DRAMATIS PERSONAE ORESTES CHORUS OF CAPTIVE WOMEN ELECTRA A NURSE CLYTEMNESTRA AEGISTHUS AN ATTENDANT PYLADES _The Scene is the Tomb of Agamemnon at Mycenae; afterwards, the Palace of Atreus, hard by the Tomb._ _Orestes_ L ord of the shades and patron of the realm That erst my father swayed, list now my prayer, Hermes, and save me with thine aiding arm, Me who from banishment returning stand On this my country; lo, my foot is set On this grave-mound, and herald-like, as thou, Once and again, I bid my father hear. And these twin locks, from mine head shorn, I bring, And one to Inachus the river-god, My young life’s nurturer, I dedicate, And one in sign of mourning unfulfilled I lay, though late, on this my father’s grave. For O my father, not beside thy corse Stood I to wail thy death, nor was my hand Stretched out to bear thee forth to burial. What sight is yonder? what this woman-throng Hitherward coming, by their sable garb Made manifest as mourners? What hath chanced? Doth some new sorrow hap within the home? Or rightly may I deem that they draw near Bearing libations, such as soothe the ire Of dead men angered, to my father’s grave? Nay, such they are indeed; for I descry Electra mine own sister pacing hither, In moody grief conspicuous. Grant, O Zeus, Grant me my father’s murder to avenge— Be thou my willing champion! Pylades, Pass we aside, till rightly I discern Wherefore these women throng in suppliance. [_Exeunt Pylades and Orestes; enter the Chorus bearing vessels for libation; Electra follows them; they pace slowly towards the tomb of Agamemnon_. CHORUS Forth from the royal halls by high command I bear libations for the dead. Rings on my smitten breast my smiting hand, And all my cheek is rent and red, Fresh-furrowed by my nails, and all my soul This many a day doth feed on cries of dole. And trailing tatters of my vest, In looped and windowed raggedness forlorn, Hang rent around my breast, Even as I, by blows of Fate most stern Saddened and torn. Oracular thro’ visions, ghastly clear, Bearing a blast of wrath from realms below, And stiffening each rising hair with dread, Came out of dream-land Fear, And, loud and awful, bade The shriek ring out at midnight’s witching hour, And brooded, stern with woe, Above the inner house, the woman’s bower. And seers inspired did read the dream on oath, Chanting aloud _In realms below The dead are wroth; Against their slayers yet their ire doth glow_.