CHORUS
CHORUS .
472
Of sense and wisdom lorn,
If this prophetic Power of right,
O’ertaking the offender, come not nigh
Ere many an hour be born.
That lately breathed into my listening ear,
Hath freed me, O my daughter, from all fear.
Sweet was that bodement. He doth not forget,
The Achaean lord that gave thee being, nor yet
The bronzen-griding axe, edged like a spear,
Hungry and keen, though dark with stains of time,
That in the hour of hideous crime
Quelled him with cruel butchery:
That, too, remembers, and shall testify.
From ambush deep and dread
With power of many a hand
And many hastening feet shall spring
The Fury of the adamantine tread,
Swift recompense to bring
For eager dalliance of a blood-stained pair
Unhallowed, foul, forbidden. No omen fair,—
Their impious course hath fixed this in my soul,—
Nought but black portents full of blame shall roll
Before their eyes that wrought or aided there.
Small force of divination would there seem
In prophecy or solemn dream,
Should not this vision of the night
Reach harbour in reality aright.
O chariot-course of Pelops, full of toil!
Hath been thine issue to our native soil!—
Since, from the golden oar
Cruelly plucked from that fell chariot-floor,
This house unceasingly hath kept
Crime and misfortune mounting evermore.
