IPHIGENIA. 

Brother, command thyself, and better know
Thy new-found sister, nor misconstrue thus
Her pure and heav’nly joy.  Ye Gods, remove
From his fix’d eye delusion, lest this hour
Of highest bliss should make us trebly wretched! 
Oh she is here, thine own, thy long-lost sister,
Whom great Diana from the altar snatch’d,
And safely plac’d here in her sacred fane. 
A captive thou, prepar’d for sacrifice,
And findest here a sister in the priestess.

                      ORESTES. 
    Accursed race!  Now may the sun behold
    Your final doom.  Is not Electra here? 
    That she with us may perish, nor her life
    For heavier doom and deeper woe reserve. 
    ’Tis well,—­I follow, priestess!  Fratricide
    Is an old custom of our ancient house;
    And you, ye Gods, I thank, that ye resolve
    Childless to root me hence.  Thee let me counsel
    To view too fondly neither sun nor stars. 
    Come follow to the gloomy realms below! 
    As dragons, gender’d in the sulphur pool,
    Swallow each other with voracious rage,
    So our accurs’d race destroys itself. 
    Childless and guiltless come below with me! 
    There’s pity in thy look! oh, gaze not so,—­
    ’Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought
    An entrance to her son Orestes’ heart,
    And yet his uprais’d arm her bosom pierc’d. 
    His mother fell!—­Appear, indignant shade! 
    Within the circle step, ye fiends of hell,
    Be present at the welcome spectacle,
    The last, most horrible, that ye prepare! 
    Nor hate, nor vengeance, whets the poignard now,
    A sister is constrain’d to deal the blow. 
    Weep not!  Thy guiltless soul is free from crime. 
    From earliest infancy I nought have lov’d,
    As thee I could have lov’d, my sister.  Come,
    The weapon raise, spare not, this bosom rend,
    And make an outlet for its boiling streams!
                                          (He sinks exhausted.)

                 IPHIGENIA. 

Alone I cannot bear this bliss and woe. 
Where art thou, Pylades?  Thine aid I need.

          
                                                                      (Iphigenia retires.)

SCENE II.

ORESTES,
Recovering from his swoon and standing up.

Give yet another! reach from Lethe’s stream
The last reviving draught of cool refreshment! 
Soon shall its waters in my bosom still
Life’s fitful fever; and my spirit then
Adown oblivion’s stream shall glide to you,
Ye spirits, shrouded in eternal mist. 
With tranquil pleasure in your deep repose
A weary son of earth may lave his soul!—­
What whisp’ring sounds pervade the dreary grove? 
What hollow murmurs haunt its twilight gloom?—­