ORESTES.
I know all, all.
ELECTRA.
Then be a man to-day!
[ORESTES and the OLD MAN depart.
O Women, let your voices from this fray
Flash me a fiery signal, where I sit,
The sword across my knees, expecting it.
For never, though they kill me, shall they touch
My living limbs!—I know my way thus much.
[She goes into the house.
* * * * *
CHORUS.
When white-haired folk are
met [Strophe.
In Argos about
the fold,
A story lingereth yet,
A voice of the
mountains old,
That tells of
the Lamb of Gold:
A lamb from a mother mild,
But the gold of
it curled and beat;
And Pan, who holdeth the keys
of the wild,
Bore it to Atreus’
feet:
His wild reed pipes he blew,
And the reeds
were filled with peace,
And a joy of singing before
him flew,
Over the fiery
fleece:
And up on the based rock,
As a herald cries,
cried he:
“Gather ye, gather,
O Argive folk,
The King’s
Sign to see,
The sign of the blest of God,
For he that hath
this, hath all!”
Therefore the dance of praise
they trod
In the Atreid
brethren’s hall.
They opened before men’s
eyes [Antistrophe.
That which was
hid before,
The chambers of sacrifice,
The dark of the
golden door,
And fires on the
altar floor.
And bright was every street,
And the voice
of the Muses’ tree.
The carven lotus, was lifted
sweet;
When afar and
suddenly,
Strange songs, and a voice
that grew:
“Come to
your king, ye folk!
Mine, mine, is the Golden
Ewe!”
’Twas dark
Thyestes spoke.
For, lo, when the world was
still,
With his brother’s
bride he lay,
And won her to work his will,
And they stole
the Lamb away!
Then forth to the folk strode
he,
And called them
about his fold,
And showed that Sign of the
King to be,
The fleece and
the horns of gold.
Then, then, the world was
changed; [Strophe 2.
And the Father, where they
ranged,
Shook the golden stars and glowing,
And the great Sun stood deranged
In the glory of his going.
Lo, from that day forth, the
East
Bears the sunrise on his breast,
And the flaming Day in heaven
Down the dim ways of the west
Driveth, to be lost at even.
The wet clouds to Northward
beat;
And Lord Ammon’s desert
seat
Crieth from the South, unslaken,
For the dews that once were
sweet,
For the rain that God hath taken.
’Tis a children’s
tale, that old [Antistrophe 2.
Shepherds on far hills have
told;
And we reck not of their telling,
Deem not that the Sun of gold
Ever turned his fiery dwelling,