Whom not in bloody fray
The War-god in the stranger-land
Received with hospitable hand,
But she that is my mother, and her groom,
As woodmen fell the oak,
Cleft through the skull with murdering stroke. 
And o’er this gloom
No ray of pity, save from only me,
Goes forth on thee,
My father, who didst die
A cruel death of piteous agony. 
But ne’er will I
Cease from my crying and sad mourning lay,
While I behold the sky,
Glancing with myriad fires, or this fair day. 
But, like some brood-bereaved nightingale,
With far-heard wail,
Here at my father’s door my voice shall sound. 
O home beneath the ground! 
Hades unseen, and dread Persephone,
And darkling Hermes, and the Curse revered,
And ye, Erinyes, of mortals feared,
Daughters of Heaven, that ever see
Who die unjustly, who are wronged i’ the bed
Of those they wed,
Avenge our father’s murder on his foe! 
Aid us, and send my brother to my side;
Alone I cannot longer bide
The oppressive strain of strength-o’ermastering woe.

CHORUS (entering). 
      O sad Electra, child I 1
Of a lost mother, why still flow
Unceasingly with lamentation wild
For him who through her treachery beguiled,
Inveigled by a wife’s deceit,
Fallen at the foul adulterer’s feet,
Most impiously was quelled long years ago? 
Perish the cause! if I may lawfully pray so.

EL.  O daughters of a noble line,
Ye come to soothe me from my troublous woe. 
        I see, I know: 
Your love is not unrecognized of mine. 
But yet I will not seem as I forgot,
Or cease to mourn my hapless father’s lot. 
        Oh, of all love
That ever may you move,
This only boon I crave—­
Leave me to rave!

CH.  Lament, nor praying breath I 2
Will raise thy sire, our honoured chief,
From that dim multitudinous gulf of death. 
Beyond the mark, due grief that measureth,
Still pining with excess of pain
Thou urgest lamentation vain,
That from thy woes can bring thee no relief. 
Why hast thou set thy heart on unavailing grief?

EL.  Senseless were he who lost from thought
A noble father, lamentably slain! 
        I love thy strain,
Bewildered mourner, bird divinely taught,
For ‘Itys,’ ‘Itys,’ ever heard to pine. 
O Niobe, I hold thee all divine,
        Of sorrows queen,
Who with all tearful mien
Insepulchred in stone
Aye makest moan.

CH.  Not unto thee alone hath sorrow come, II 1
Daughter, that thou shouldst carry grief so far
Beyond those dwellers in the palace-home
        Who of thy kindred are
And own one source with thee. 
        What life hath she,
Chrysothemis, and Iphianassa bright,
        And he whose light
Is hidden afar from taste of horrid doom,
Youthful Orestes, who shall come
To fair Mycenae’s glorious town,
Welcomed as worthy of his sire’s renown,
Sped by great Zeus with kindly thought,
And to this land with happiest omen brought?