Above thy foes as far

As now thou dwellest underneath their might!

For under no good star

Have I held the course

Lying, of thy life; yet in the paths of Right

Most sovereign —thou, I say, in these hast trod

The foremost, through thy piety to God.

Enter ORESTES and PYLADES, with an urn.

ORESTES.

Were we told right, and are we tending right,

As we desire, fair ladies?

I LADY.

And what seek you?

What are you here for?

ORESTES.

I was asking where

Ægisthus lodged.

I LADY.

Then you are well arrived,

And your informant blameless.

ORESTES.

Which of you

Would kindly carry word to those within

Of the long-looked-for presence of us twain?

I LADY.

If the most near ought to announce it, she will.

ORESTES.

Lady, go in and tell them certain Phocians

Seek for Ægisthus.

ELECTRA.

O me miserable!

Are you not bringing tokens to confirm

The tale we heard?

ORESTES.

I do not know your story;

But my old master, Strophius, gave me charge

To tell about Orestes.

ELECTRA.

O sir, what?

How terror creeps upon me!

ORESTES.

We bring home

Poor relics of him, in a narrow urn,

Dead, as you see.

ELECTRA.

Unhappy that I am!

Here is the thing already evident.

I see your burden, I suppose, at hand.

ORESTES.

If you are grieving for Orestes’ ills,

Know, that this vessel holds the dust of him.

ELECTRA.

O sir, in Heaven’s name give it—if this urn

Hides him indeed —into my hands, to hold,

That I may weep and mourn to the uttermost

For my own self, and my whole race, at once,

Over these ashes!

ORESTES.

Bring it here, and give her,

Whoever she may be; for I am sure

She does not ask it out of enmity,

But as some friend, or blood-relation born.

ELECTRA.

Ah thou memorial of my best-beloved,

All that is left me of Orestes, how

Do I receive thee back — not as I hoped,

When I first sped thee on thy way! For now

I bear thee in my hands, and thou art nothing;

But O my child, I sent thee forth from home

Glorious with life! Would that I first had died,

Before I sent thee to a foreign land,

Stolen by these hands and out of slaughter saved;

So had that day beheld thee lying dead,

Partaking with me in thy father’s grave.

But now thou hast perished — perished miserably,

An exile in a strange land, far from home,

Far from thy sister; nor with loving hands

Bathed I thy body, and laid it out —woe’s me!

Nor, as was fitting, from the blazing pyre

Took up the poor remains. But cared for —ah,

By unfamiliar hands thou art come hither,

A little burden, in a little urn.

Ah me unhappy for my ancient care

Made fruitless, for the pleasing toil I spent,

Often, on thee! for not at any time

Wert thou thy mother’s darling, more than mine;

I was thy Nurse; no houselings fostered thee;