Of vile usurpers, and avenge thy wrongs —
Drive me not from thee an abandoned exile
With infamy, but grant me to possess
My father's throne, and fix his injured race.
Thus far 'tis well. My faithful minister,
Thou to thy office, we to ours with speed ;
So time and opportunity require
On whom the fate of mortals must depend.
Governor
Methought a mournful voice
Spake from within.
Shall we not stay and hearken to it ?
80
Governor
No :
First be Apollo's great behests obeyed
Before thy father's tomb. That pious deed
Performed shall fire our souls with nobler wariuih,
And crown our bold attempt with fair success. [ExucuL
Eleotra.
O hJicred light I and O thou ambient aii' !
Her sighs and groans, and witnessed to her woes,
Which ever as each hateful morn appeared
T poured befoi-e you : what at eve retired
I felt of anguish my sad couch alone
Can tell, which watered nightly with my tears
Received me sorrowing — tliat best can tell
What pangs I suffered for a hapless father,
Whom not tlie god of war with ruthless hand
Struck nobly fighting in a distant soil.
But my fell mother, and the cursed ^gisthus,
The partner of her bed, remorseless slew.
Untimely didst thou fall, lamented shade,
85
Nor shall she ce;ise to mourn thee, while these eyes
85
View the fair heavens or behold the sun !
85
Never ! oh, never ! Like the nightingale.
85
Whose plaintive song bewails her ravished brood,
85
Here will I still lament my father's wrongs,
85
And teach the echo to repeat my moan.
85
O ye infernal deities ! and thou
85
Terrestrial Hermes ! and thou, Nemesis,
85
Replete with curses ! and ye vengeful Furies,
Offspring of gods, the ministers of wrath
To vile adulterers, who with pity view
The slaughtered innocent— behold this deed !
Oh ! come, assist, revenge my father's murder ;
Quickly, oh, quickly bring me my Orestes ;
For lo ! 1 sink beneath oppressive woe,
And can no longer bear the weight alone.
Chorus
Scene II.
Scene III.
O wretched daughter of an impious mother !
'^I'ilt thou for ever mourn, for ever thus,
With unavailing tears and endless sorrow,
Lament the royal Agamemnon's fate,
By a vile woman's wicked arts betrayed?
85
Perish the hand (forgive the pious curse.
85
Ye heavenly powers !) that gave the deadly blow I
Electra
My noble friends and partners in affliction,
Electra. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.