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Chorus
The great prosperity and the prowess, proudly boasted throughout
Hellas
and by the streams of Simois,
went back again from good fortune for the Atreidae long ago, from an old misfortune to their house, when strife came to the sons of Tantalus over a golden ram, to end in most pitiable banqueting and
810
the slaughter of high-born children; and this is why murder exchanges for murder, through blood, and does not leave the two Atreidae.
815
The great prosperity and the prowess, proudly boasted throughout
Hellas
and by the streams of Simois,
went back again from good fortune for the Atreidae long ago, from an old misfortune to their house, when strife came to the sons of Tantalus over a golden ram, to end in most pitiable banqueting and
810
the slaughter of high-born children; and this is why murder exchanges for murder, through blood, and does not leave the two Atreidae.
815
Chorus
What seemed good was not good,
to cut a mother’s flesh with ruthless hand and show the sword stained black with blood to the sun’s bright beams;
to commit a noble crime is an impious, subtle, malignant madness!
820
The wretched daughter of Tyndareus in terror of death screamed to him:
My son, this is unholy, your bold attempt upon your mother’s life; do not, while honoring your father,
825
fasten on yourself an eternity of shame.
830
What seemed good was not good,
to cut a mother’s flesh with ruthless hand and show the sword stained black with blood to the sun’s bright beams;
to commit a noble crime is an impious, subtle, malignant madness!
820
The wretched daughter of Tyndareus in terror of death screamed to him:
My son, this is unholy, your bold attempt upon your mother’s life; do not, while honoring your father,
825
fasten on yourself an eternity of shame.
830
Chorus
What affliction on earth surpasses this? What calls for keener grief or pity, than to shed with your hand a mother’s blood? Oh! what a dreadful crime he committed,
and now is raving mad, a prey to the Furies, whirling blood with racing eyes, the son of Agamemnon! O the wretch! when
835
he saw a mother’s bosom over her robe of golden weave, and yet he made her his victim, in recompense for his father’s sufferings.
840
What affliction on earth surpasses this? What calls for keener grief or pity, than to shed with your hand a mother’s blood? Oh! what a dreadful crime he committed,
and now is raving mad, a prey to the Furies, whirling blood with racing eyes, the son of Agamemnon! O the wretch! when
835
he saw a mother’s bosom over her robe of golden weave, and yet he made her his victim, in recompense for his father’s sufferings.
840
Orestes. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1891.
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