Orestes. 
What sign thou wilt.  Ask anything from home.

Iphigenia. 
Nay, thou speak:  ’tis from thee the sign should come.

Orestes. 
That will I.—­First, old tales Electra told. 
Thou knowest how Pelops’ princes warred of old?

Iphigenia. 
I know:  the Golden Lamb that wrought their doom.

Orestes. 
Thine own hand wove that story on the loom...

Iphigenia. 
How sweet!  Thou movest near old memories.

Orestes. 
With a great Sun back beaten in the skies.

Iphigenia. 
Fine linen threads I used.  The memories come.

Orestes. 
And mother gave thee shrift-water from home
For Aulis ...

Iphigenia. 
            I remember.  Not so fair
A day did drink that water!

Orestes. 
                           And thine hair
They brought us for thy dying gift, and gave
To mother.

Iphigenia. 
          Yes:  for record on the grave
I sent it, where this head should never lie.

Orestes. 
Another token, seen of mine own eye. 
The ancient lance that leapt in Pelops’ hand,
To win his bride, the virgin of the land,
And smite Oenomaus, in thy chamber hid ...

Iphigenia (falling into his arms). 
Beloved!  Oh, no other, for indeed
Beloved art thou!  In mine arms at last,
       Orestes far away.

Orestes. 
And thou in mine, the evil dreaming past,
    Back from the dead this day! 
Yet through the joy tears, tears and sorrow loud
Are o’er mine eyes and thine eyes, like a cloud.

Iphigenia. 
    Is this the babe I knew,
The little babe, light lifted like a bird? 
O heart of mine, too blest for any word,
    What shall I say or do? 
Beyond all wonders, beyond stories heard,
    This joy is here and true.

Orestes. 
Could we but stay thus joined for evermore!

Iphigenia. 
A joy is mine I may not understand,
Friends, and a fear, lest sudden from my hand
    This dream will melt and soar
Up to the fiery skies from whence it came. 
O Argos land, O hearth and holy flame
    That old Cyclopes lit,
I bless ye that he lives, that he is grown,
A light and strength, my brother and mine own;
    I bless your name for it.

Orestes. 
One blood we are; so much is well.  But Fate,
Sister, hath not yet made us fortunate.

Iphigenia. 
O most unfortunate!  Did I not feel,
Whose father, misery-hearted, at my bare
    Throat held the steel?

Orestes. 
Woe’s me!  Methinks even now I see thee there.

Iphigenia. 
No love-song of Achilles!  Crafty arms
    Drew me to that cold sleep,
And tears, blind tears amid the altar psalms
    And noise of them that weep—­
That was my cleansing!