LEADER (looking up).
Is it for us, O Seed of Zeus,
To speak and hear your words again!
CASTOR. Speak: of this blood ye bear
no stain.
ELECTRA. I also, sons of Tyndareus,
My kinsmen; may my word be
said?
CASTOR. Speak: on Apollo’s head
we lay
The bloody doings of this day.
LEADER. Ye Gods, ye brethren of the dead,
Why held ye not the deathly
herd
Of Keres back from off this home?
CASTOR. There came but that which needs must
come
By ancient Fate and that dark word
That rang from Phoebus in
his mood.
ELECTRA. And what should Phoebus seek with
me,
Or all God’s oracles that be,
That I must bear my mother’s blood?
CASTOR. Thy hand was as thy brother’s
hand,
Thy
doom shall be as his. One stain,
From
dim forefathers on the twain
Lighting,
hath sapped your hearts as sand.
ORESTES (who has never raised his head, nor spoken to the Gods).
After so long, sister, to
see
And hold thee, and then part, then part,
By all that chained thee to my heart
Forsaken, and forsaking thee!
CASTOR. Husband and house are hers. She
bears
No
bitter judgment, save to go
Exiled
from Argos.
ELECTRA. And what woe,
What
tears are like an exile’s tears?
ORESTES. Exiled and more am I; impure,
A
murderer in a stranger’s hand:
CASTOR. Fear not. There dwells in Pallas’
land
All
holiness. Till then endure!
[ORESTES
and ELECTRA embrace
ORESTES. Aye, closer; clasp my body well,
And
let thy sorrow loose, and shed,
As
o’er the grave of one new dead,
Dead
evermore, thy last farewell! [A sound of weeping.
CASTOR. Alas, what would ye? For that cry
Ourselves
and all the sons of heaven
Have
pity. Yea, our peace is riven
By
the strange pain of these that die.
ORESTES. No more to see thee! ELECTRA.
Nor thy breath
Be
near my face! ORESTES. Ah, so it ends.
ELECTRA. Farewell, dear Argos. All ye
friends,
Farewell!
ORESTES. O faithful unto death,
Thou goest? ELECTRA.
Aye, I pass from you,
Soft-eyed at last. ORESTES. Go,
Pylades,
And God go with you! Wed in peace
My tall Electra, and be true.
[ELECTRA and PYLADES
depart to the left.
CASTOR.
Their troth shall fill their
hearts.—But on:
Dread feet are near thee, hounds of prey,
Snake-handed, midnight-visaged, yea,
And bitter pains their fruit! Begone!
[ORESTES
departs to the right.
But hark, the far Sicilian
sea
Calls, and a noise of men and ships
That labour sunken to the lips
In bitter billows; forth go we,