Was slayer — embodying the shade

Of a fell deed foully planned,

Yea, whether by heavenly aid

Or a mortars hand.

ELECTRA.

O day that far beyond all

Dawned most hateful to see!

O night —O sorrows abhorred

Of that ghastly festival —

Murder done villainously

On my sire, by the hands of twain

Who took my life as a prey,

Who annihilated me!

Whom may God with rightful reward,

The Olympian Power, again

For their deeds amply repay,

Nor let them compass their bliss

By an act like this!

CHORUS.

Take heed; say no more.

Hast thou no consciousness

Out of what wealth before

Thou fall’st thus miserably

Into ills that abide with thee?

Thou hast wrought thee woes in excess,

Bringing forth strife on strife

To the heaviness of thy life;

And is it so easy a thing

To contend with a king?

ELECTRA.

Hard is my fate, full hard;

I know it; I am mad, I confess;

Yet not for the fates that oppress

Will I keep this wrath under guard,

The while my life shall endure!

For from whom, companions dear,

Should I submissively hear

Reason, or from whom, that is wise,

Counsel, fit for mine ear?

Let me be; cease to advise;

All this must pass without cure;

I shall never be free from distress,

And laments numberless.

CHORUS.

Yet I bid thee, faithful still,

As a mother, and in good will,

Do not add new ill unto ill.

ELECTRA.

And where should a limit be set

For evil to spread?

Or how is it well, to forget

The cause of the dead?

In what man’s heart

Could a plant like this find place?

Be mine no part

In such men’s favour or grace!

Nor, if with any good things

My fortune is blent,

Be it mine to rest in content,

And fetter the wings

Of piercing cries, or tire,

Praising my sire.

For if in the earth, as nought,

The dead must lie,

And these, in return, who ought,

The slayers, not die,

Then farewell honour, and fall

Men’s reverence, all!

I LADY.

I came, my daughter, zealous for your good

As for my own; but if I say not well,

Have it your way; for we will follow you.

ELECTRA.

I am ashamed, dear ladies, if to you

Through frequent lamentations I appear

Too sorely oppressed; but, for necessity

Obliges me to do so, pardon me.

For how should any woman gently born,

Viewing the sorrows of her father’s house,

Do otherwise than I, who witness them

For ever day by day and night by night

Rather increase than lessen? to whom, first,

The mother’s face who bare me has become

Most hostile; next, I must be companied

In my own home with my sire’s murderers,

By them be ruled, take at their hands, or else

At their hands hunger! Then, what sort of days

Do you suppose I lead, when I behold

Ægisthus seated on my father’s throne,

Wearing the selfsame garments which he wore,