Consent to make their house beneath that place
In darkness.  Others still consented not,
But clove to me the more, like bloodhounds hot
On the dying; till to Phoebus’ house once more
I crept, and cast me starving on the floor
Facing the Holy Place, and made my cry: 
“Lord Phoebus, here I am come, and here will die,
Unless thou save me, as thou hast betrayed.” 
And, lo, from out that dark and golden shade
A voice:  “Go, seek the Taurian citadel: 
Seize there the carven Artemis that fell
From heaven, and stablish it on Attic soil. 
So comes thy freedom.” [Iphigenia shrinks.]
                      Sister, in this toil

Help us!—­If once that image I may win
That day shall end my madness and my sin: 
And thou, to Argos o’er the sundering foam
My many-oared barque shall bear thee home.

O sister loved and lost, O pitying face,
Help my great peril; help our father’s race. 
For lost am I and perished all the powers
Of Pelops, save that heavenly thing be ours!

Leader. 
Strange wrath of God hath fallen, like hot rain,
On Tantalus’ house:  he leadeth them through pain.

Iphigenia. 
Long ere you came my heart hath yearned to be
In Argos, brother, and so near to thee: 
But now—­thy will is mine.  To ease thy pain,
To lift our father’s house to peace again,
And hate no more my murderers—­aye,’tis good. 
Perchance to clean this hand that sought thy blood,
And save my people... 
                     But the goddess’ eyes,
How dream we to deceive them?  Or what wise
Escape the King, when on his sight shall fall
The blank stone of the empty pedestal? ... 
I needs must die ...  What better can I do?

And yet, one chance there is:  could I but go
Together with the image:  couldst thou bear
Both on the leaping seas!  The risk were fair. 
But how?

Nay, I must wait then and be slain: 
Thou shalt walk free in Argolis again,
And all life smile on thee ...  Dearest, we need
Nor shrink from that.  I shall by mine own deed
Have saved thee.  And a man gone from the earth
Is wept for.  Women are but little worth.

Orestes. 
My mother and then thou?  It may not be. 
This hand hath blood enough.  I stand with thee
One-hearted here, be it for life or death,
And either bear thee, if God favoureth,
With me to Greece and home, or else lie here
Dead at thy side.—­But mark me:  if thou fear
Lest Artemis be wroth, how can that be? 
Hath not her brother’s self commanded me
To bear to Greece her image?—­Oh, he knew
Her will!  He knew that in this land we two
Must meet once more.  All that so far hath past
Doth show his work.  He will not at the last
Fail.  We shall yet see Argos, thou and I.

Iphigenia. 
To steal for thee the image, yet not die
Myself!  ’Tis that we need.  ’Tis that doth kill
My hope.  Else ...  Oh, God knows I have the will!