STROPHE II. CHORUS. Son, the strong-jawed funeral fire Burns not the mind in the smoky pyre; Sleeps, but not forgets the dead To show betimes his anger dread. For the dead the living moan, That the murderer may be known. They who mourn for parent slain Shall not pour the wail in vain, Bright disclosure shall not lack Who through darkness hunts the track. {109} ANTISTROPHE I. ELECTRA. Hear thou our cries, O father, when for thee The frequent tear is falling; The wailing pair o'er thy dear tomb to thee From their hearts' depths are calling; The suppliant and the exile at one tomb Their sorrow showering, Helpless and hopeless; mantled round with gloom, Woe overpouring! CHORUS. Nay, be calm; the god that speaks With voice oracular shall attune Thy throat to happier notes; Instead the voice of wail funereal, Soon the jubilant shout shall shake His father's halls with joy, and welcome The new friend to his home. STROPHE III. ORESTES. If but some Lycian spear, 'neath Ilium's walls, Had lowly laid thee, A mighty name in the Atridan halls Thou wouldst have made thee! Then hadst thou pitched thy fortune like a star, To son and grandson shining from afar; Beyond the wide-waved sea, the high-heaped mound Had told for ever Thy feats of battle, and with glory crowned Thy high endeavour. ANTISTROPHE II. CHORUS. Ah! would that thou hadst found thy end There, where dear friend fell with friend, And marched with them to Hades dread, The monarch of the awful dead,[n28] Sitting beside the throne with might Of them that rule the realms of night; For thou in life wert monarch true, Expert each kingly deed to do, Leading, with thy persuasive rod, Submissive mortals like a god. ANTISTROPHE III. ELECTRA. Thou wert a king, no fate it was for thee To die as others {110} 'Neath Ilium's walls, far, far beyond the sea, With many brothers. Unworthy was the spear to drink thy blood, Where far Scamander rolls his swirling flood. Justly who slew had drawn themselves thy lot, And perished rather, And thou their timeless fate had welcomed, not They thine, my father. CHORUS. Child, thy grief begetteth visions Brighter than gold, and overtopping Hyperborean bliss.[n29] Ah, here the misery rudely riots, With double lash. These twins, their help Sleeps beneath the ground; and they Who hold dominion here, alas! With unholy sceptre sway. Woe is me! but chiefly woe Children dear to you!