NURSE. _How_ say'st thou? how shall I receive the question? CHORUS. Alone, I mean, or with his guards? NURSE. She says His spearmen shall attend him. {122} CHORUS. Not so, Nurse! If thou dost hate our most hate-worthy master, Tell him to come alone, without delay, To hear glad tidings with exulting heart. The bearer of a tale can make it wear What face he pleases.[n57] NURSE. Well! if thou mean'st well, Perhaps-- CHORUS. Perhaps that Jove may make the breeze Yet veer to us. NURSE. How so? Our only hope, Orestes, is no more. CHORUS. Softly, good Nurse; Thou art an evil prophet, if thou say'st so. NURSE. How? hast thou news to a different tune? CHORUS. Go! go! Mind thine own business, and the gods will do What thing they will do. NURSE. Well! I'll do thy bidding! The gods lead all things to a fair conclusion! CHORAL HYMN.[n58] STROPHE I. O thou, o'er all Olympian gods that be, Supremely swaying, With words of wisdom, when I pray to thee, Inspire my praying. We can but pray; to do, O Jove, is thine, Thou great director; Of him within, who works thy will divine, Be thou protector! Him raise, the orphaned son whom thou dost see In sheer prostration; Twofold and threefold he shall find from thee Just compensation. ANTISTROPHE I. But hard the toil. Yoked to the car of Fate, When harshly driven, O rein him thou! his goaded speed abate Wisely from Heaven! Jove tempers all, steadies all things that reel; When wildly swerveth {123} From the safe line life's burning chariot wheel, His hand preserveth. Ye gods, that guard these gold-stored halls, this day Receive the claimant, Who comes, that old Wrong to young Right may pay A purple payment. STROPHE II. BLOOD BEGETS BLOOD; but, when this blow shall fall, O thou, whose dwelling Is Delphi's fuming throat, may this be all! Of red blood, welling From guilty veins, enough. Henceforth may joy Look from the eyes of the Atridan boy, Discerning clearly From his ancestral halls the clouds unrolled, That hung so drearly. ANTISTROPHE II. And thou, O Maia's son,[f8] fair breezes blow, The full sail swelling! Cunning art thou through murky ways to go, To Death's dim dwelling; Dark are the doings of the gods; and we, When they are clearest shown, but dimly see; Yet faith will follow Where Hermes leads, the leader of the dead, And thou, Apollo.