O son of gi^eat Atrides ! he who led
1
Embattled Greece to Troy's devoted walls,
1
At length behold what thy desmng eyes
1
So long have sought. Behold thy native soil,
1
Thy much-loved Argos, and the hallowed grove
Of lo, frantic maid. On this side lies
The Lycian forum, on the left the fane
Of Juno, far renowned. Behold ! we come
To rich Mycense, and the slaughterous house
Of Pelops' hapless race, from whose sad walls
Long since I bore thee, at thy sister's hand
Gladly rocoivod, niul with paternal oiire
To this blest clay have fostered up thy youth,
Till riper years should give thee to return,
And pay with dire revenge thy father's murder.
Now, my Orestes, and thou dear companior
5
Of all our suft'erings, much-loved Pylades,
5
Let deepest counsel sway our just resolves ;
5
/For lo ! resplendent Pha-bus wifh his light
/ Calls up t lie cheerful birds to early song,
VAnd gloomy night hath lost her starry train :
Pours forth her busy throngs, this instant here
JiOt us consult. Believe me, 'tis no time
For dull delay ; 'tis the decisive hour,
And this the very crisis of our fate.
Orestes
( V)me then, my friends, and ere th' awakened city
Electra. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.