The grave of Agamemnon, even now,
Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray. 
And when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother’s mighty master leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live: 
“Where is thy son Orestes?  Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance?  Or is all forgot?”
So is he scorned because he cometh not....

O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell
Crowding—­and I the trumpet of their pain,
This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died! 
His father slew Troy’s thousands in their pride;
He hath but one to kill....  O God, but one! 
Is he a man, and Agamemnon’s son?

LEADER.

But hold:  is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended, hasting home again?

Enter the PEASANT.

PEASANT.

Ha, who be these?  Strange men in arms before
My house!  What would they at this lonely door? 
Seek they for me?—­Strange gallants should not stay
A woman’s goings.

ELECTRA.

Friend and helper!—­Nay,
Think not of any evil.  These men be
Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!... 
Strangers, forgive his speech.

PEASANT.

What word have they
Of him?  At least he lives and sees the day!

ELECTRA.

So fares their tale—­and sure I doubt it not!

PEASANT.

And ye two still are living in his thought,
Thou and his father?

ELECTRA.

In his dreams we live. 
An exile hath small power.

PEASANT.

And did he give
Some privy message?

ELECTRA.

None:  they come as spies
For news of me.

PEASANT.

Thine outward news their eyes
Can see; the rest, methinks, thyself will tell.

ELECTRA.

They have seen all, heard all.  I trust them well.

PEASANT.

Why were our doors not open long ago?—­
Be welcome, strangers both, and pass below
My lintel.  In return for your glad words
Be sure all greeting that mine house affords
Is yours.—­Ye followers, bear in their gear!—­
Gainsay me not; for his sake are ye dear
That sent you to our house; and though my part
In life be low, I am no churl at heart.

[The PEASANT goes to the ARMED SERVANTS at the back, to help them with the baggage.

ORESTES (aside to ELECTRA).

Is this the man that shields thy maidenhood
Unknown, and will not wrong thy father’s blood?

ELECTRA.

He is called my husband.  ’Tis for him I toil.

ORESTES.