CHORUS
CHORUS .
1058
Wise are the birds of air
That with true filial care
For those provide convenient food
Who gave them birth, who wrought their good.
Why will not men the like perfection prove?
Else, by the fires above,
Fierce recompense they shall not long elude.
O darkling rumour, world-o’er-wandering voice
That piercest to the shades beneath the ground,
To dead Atrides waft a sound
Of sad reproach, not bidding him rejoice.
Stained is the ancestral hall,
That heretofore his children twain
In loving concord did sustain.
Alone, deserted, vexed, Electra sails,
Storm-tossed with rugged gales,
Like piteous Philomel, and pining sore
For her lost father;—might she but bring down
That two-fold Fury, caring not for death,
But ready to resign her breath,
What maid so worthy of a sire’s renown?
None who inherit from a noble race,
Complying with things base
Will let their ancient glory be defiled.
So ’twas thy choice, dear child,
Through homeless misery to win a two-fold prize,
Purging the sin and shame
That cloud the Argive name,
So to be called most noble and most wise.
May’st thou surpass thy foes in wealth and power
As o’er thee now they tower!
Since I have found thee, not in bright estate,
Nor blessed by wayward fate,
But through thy loyalty to Heaven’s eternal cause
Wearing the stainless crown
And richly dowered by the mightiest laws.