ORESTES I, schooled in many miseries, have learnt How many refuges of cleansing shrines There be; I know when law alloweth speech And when imposeth silence. Lo, I stand Fixed now to speak, for he whose word is wise Commands the same. Look, how the stain of blood Is dull upon mine hand and wastes away, And laved and lost therewith is the deep curse Of matricide; for while the guilt was new, ’Twas banished from me at Apollo’s hearth, Atoned and purified by death of swine. Long were my word if I should sum the tale, How oft since then among my fellow-men I stood and brought no curse. Time cleanses all— Time, the coeval of all things that are. Now from pure lips, in words of omen fair, I call Athena, lady of this land, To come, my champion: so, in aftertime, She shall not fail of love and service leal, Not won by war, from me and from my land, And all the folk of Argos, vowed to her. Now, be she far away in Libyan land Where flows from Triton’s lake her natal wave,— Stand she with planted feet, or in some hour Of rest conceal them, champion of her friends Where’er she be,—or whether o’er the plain Phlegraean she look forth, as warrior bold— I cry to her to come, where’er she be, (And she, as goddess, from afar can hear,) And aid and free me, set among my foes. CHORUS Thee not Apollo nor Athena’s strength Can save from perishing, a castaway Amid the Lost, where no delight shall meet Thy soul—a bloodless prey of nether powers, A shadow among shadows. Answerest thou Nothing? dost cast away my words with scorn, Thou, prey prepared and dedicate to me? Not as a victim slain upon the shrine, But living shalt thou see thy flesh my food. Hear now the binding chant that makes thee mine. Weave the weird dance,—behold the hour To utter forth the chant of hell, Our sway among mankind to tell, The guidance of our power. Of Justice are we ministers, And whosoe’er of men may stand Lifting a pure unsullied hand, That man no doom of ours incurs, And walks thro’ all his mortal path Untouched by woe, unharmed by wrath. But if, as yonder man, he hath Blood on the hands he strives to hide, We stand avengers at his side, Decreeing, _Thou hast wronged the dead: We are doom’s witnesses to thee_. The price of blood, his hands have shed, We wring from him; in life, in death, Hard at his side are we! Night, Mother Night, who brought me forth, a torment To living men and dead, Hear me, O hear! by Leto’s stripling son I am dishonourèd: He hath ta’en from me him who cowers in refuge, To me made consecrate,— A rightful victim, him who slew his mother. Given o’er to me and fate. Hear the hymn of hell, O’er the victim sounding,— Chant of frenzy, chant of ill, Sense and will confounding! Round the soul entwining Without lute or lyre— Soul in madness pining, Wasting as with fire!