Pylades. 

Delicious music! dearly welcome tones
Of our own language in a foreign land! 
With joy my captive eye once more beholds
The azure mountains of my native coast. 
Oh, let this joy that I too am a Greek
Convince thee, priestess!  How I need thine aid,
A moment I forget, my spirit wrapt
In contemplation of so fair a vision. 
If fate’s dread mandate doth not seal thy lips. 
From which of our illustrious races, say,
Dost thou thy godlike origin derive?

                 Iphigenia. 

A priestess, by the Goddess’ self ordain’d
And consecrated too, doth speak with thee. 
Let that suffice:  but tell me, who art thou,
And what unbless’d o’erruling destiny
Hath hither led thee with thy friend?

Pylades. 
The woe,
Whose hateful presence ever dogs our steps,
I can with ease relate.  Oh, would that thou
Couldst with like ease, divine one, shed on us
One ray of cheering hope!  We are from Crete,
Adrastus’ sons, and I, the youngest born,
Named Cephalus; my eldest brother, he,
Laodamus.  Between us two a youth
Of savage temper grew, who oft disturb’d
The joy and concord of our youthful sports. 
Long as our father led his powers at Troy,
Passive our mother’s mandate we obey’d;
But when, enrich’d with booty, he return’d,
And shortly after died, a contest fierce
For the succession and their father’s wealth,
Parted the brothers.  I the eldest joined;
He slew the second; and the Furies hence
For kindred murder dog his restless steps. 
But to this savage shore the Delphian god
Hath sent us, cheer’d by hope, commanding us
Within his sister’s temple to await
The blessed hand of aid.  We have been ta’en,
Brought hither, and now stand for sacrifice. 
My tale is told.

Iphigenia
Tell me, is Troy o’erthrown? 
Assure me of its fall.

Pylades. 
It lies in ruins. 
But oh, ensure deliverance to us! 
Hasten, I pray, the promis’d aid of heav’n. 
Pity my brother, say a kindly word;
But I implore thee, spare him when thou speakest. 
Too easily his inner mind is torn
By joy, or grief, or cruel memory. 
A feverish madness oft doth seize on him,
Yielding his spirit, beautiful and free,
A prey to furies.

Iphigenia. 
Great as is thy woe,
Forget it, I conjure thee, for a while,
Till I am satisfied.

Pylades. 
The stately town,
Which ten long years withstood the Grecian host,
Now lies in ruins, ne’er to rise again;
Yet many a hero’s grave will oft recall
Our sad remembrance to that barbarous shore;
There lies Achilles and his noble friend.

Iphigenia. 
And are ye, godlike forms, reduc’d to dust!

Pylades. 
Nor Palamede, nor Ajax, ere again
The daylight of their native land behold.