PYLADES. 

Dost thou not know us, and this sacred grove,
And this blest light, which shines not on the dead? 
Dost thou not feel thy sister and thy friend,
Who hold thee living in their firm embrace? 
Grasp us! we are not shadows.  Mark my words! 
Collect thyself,—­each moment now is precious,
And our return hangs on a slender thread,
Which, as it seems, some gracious fate doth spin.

             ORESTES to IPHIGENIA. 

My sister, let me for the first time taste,
With open heart, pure joy within thine arms! 
Ye gods, who charge the heavy clouds with dread,
And sternly gracious send the long-sought rain
With thunder and the rush of mighty winds,
A horrid deluge on the trembling earth;
Yet dissipate at length man’s dread suspense,
Exchanging timid wonder’s anxious gaze
For grateful looks and joyous songs of praise,
When in each sparkling drop which gems the leaves,
Apollo, thousand-fold, reflects his beam,
And Iris colours with a magic hand
The dusky texture of the parting clouds;
Oh, let me also in my sister’s arms,
And on the bosom of my friend, enjoy
With grateful thanks the bliss ye now bestow
My heart assures me that your curses cease. 
The dread Eumenides at length retire,
The brazen gates of Tartarus I hear
Behind them closing with a thund’ring clang. 
A quick’ning odour from the earth ascends,
Inviting me to chase, upon its plains,
The joys of life and deeds of high emprise.

                  PYLADES. 

Lose not the moments which are limited! 
The favouring gale, which swells our parting sail,
Must to Olympus waft our perfect joy. 
Quick counsel and resolve the time demands.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

                 IPHIGENIA. 

When the Powers on high decree
For a feeble child of earth
Dire perplexity and woe,
And his spirit doom to pass
With tumult wild from joy to grief,
And back again from grief to joy,
In fearful alternation;
They in mercy then provide,
In the precincts of his home,
Or upon the distant shore,
That to him may never fail
Ready help in hours of need,
A tranquil, faithful friend. 
Oh, bless, ye heavenly powers, our Pylades,
And every project that his mind may form! 
In combat his the vigorous arm of youth,
And in the counsel his the eye of age. 
His soul is tranquil; in his inner mind
He guards a sacred, undisturb’d repose,
And from its silent depths a rich supply
Of aid and counsel draws for the distress’d. 
He tore me from my brother, upon whom,
With fond amaze, I gaz’d and gaz’d again;
I could not realize my happiness,
Nor loose him from my arms, and heeded not
The danger’s near approach that threatens us.