Orestes. 
Aye; we have never braved these leagues of way
To falter at the end.  See, I obey
Thy words.  They are ever wise.  Let us go mark
Some cavern, to lie hid till fall of dark. 
God will not suffer that bad things be stirred
To mar us now, and bring to naught the word
Himself hath spoke.  Aye, and no peril brings
Pardon for turning back to sons of kings.

[They go out towards the shore.  After they are gone, enter gradually the women]

Of the chorus.

Chorus. 
Peace!  Peace upon all who dwell
By the Sister Rocks that clash in the swell
     Of the Friendless Seas.

  O Child of Leto, thou,
  Dictynna mountain-born,
  To the cornice gold-inlaid
  To the pillared sanctities,
  We come in the cold of morn,
  We come with virgin brow,
  Pure as our oath was sworn,
  Handmaids of thine handmaid
  Who holdeth the stainless keys,

  From Hellas, that once was ours,
  We come before thy gate,
  From the land of the western seas,
  The horses and the towers,
  The wells and the garden trees,
  And the seats where our fathers sate.

Leader. 
What tidings, ho?  With what intent
  Hast called me to thy shrine and thee,
  O child of him who crossed the sea
To Troy with that great armament,
The thousand prows, the myriad swords? 
I come, O child of Atreid Lords.

[Iphigenia, followed by attendants, comes from the Temple.]

Iphigenia. 
     Alas, O maidens mine,
     I am filled full of tears: 
     My heart filled with the beat
     Of tears, as of dancing feet,
A lyreless joyless line,
And music meet for the dead.

For a whisper is in mine ears,
By visions borne on the breath
Of the Night that now is fled,
Of a brother gone to death. 
Oh sorrow and weeping sore,
  For the house that no more is,
For the dead that were kings of yore
  And the labour of Argolis!

[She begins the Funeral Rite.]

O Spirit, thou unknown,
  Who bearest on dark wings
My brother, my one, mine own,
  I bear drink-offerings,
And the cup that bringeth ease
  Flowing through Earth’s deep breast;
Milk of the mountain kine,
The hallowed gleam of wine,
The toil of murmuring bees: 
  By these shall the dead have rest.

To an attendant.

The golden goblet let me pour,
And that which Hades thirsteth for.

O branch of Agamemnon’s tree
  Beneath the earth, as to one dead,
This cup of love I pour to thee. 
  Oh, pardon, that I may not shed

One lock of hair to wreathe thy tomb,
  One tear:  so far, so far am I
From what to me and thee was home,
  And where in all men’s fantasy,
  Butchered, O God!  I also lie.