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    Act the Third

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    Chapter 3
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    SCENE I.


    Unhappy man, I only loose thy bonds
    In token of a still severer doom.
    The freedom which the sanctuary imparts,
    Like the last life-gleam o'er the dying face,
    But heralds death. I cannot, dare not say
    Your doom is hopeless; for, with murd'rous hand,
    Could I inflict the fatal blow myself?
    And while I here am priestess of Diana,
    None, be he who he may, dare touch your heads.
    But the incensed king, should I refuse
    Compliance with the rites himself enjoin'd,
    Will choose another virgin from my train
    As my successor. Then, alas! with nought,
    Save ardent wishes, can I succour you,
    Much honour'd countryman! The humblest slave,
    Who had but near'd our sacred household hearth,
    Is dearly welcome in a foreign land;
    How with proportion'd joy and blessing, then,
    Shall I receive the man who doth recall
    The image of the heroes, whom I learn'd
    To honour from my parents, and who cheers
    My inmost heart with flatt'ring gleams of hope!

    Does prudent forethought prompt thee to conceal
    Thy name and race? or may I hope to know
    Who, like a heavenly vision, meets me thus?

    Yes, thou shalt know me. Now conclude the tale
    Of which thy brother only told me half:
    Relate their end, who coming home from Troy,
    On their own threshold met a doom severe
    And most unlook'd for. I, though but a child
    When first conducted hither, well recall
    The timid glance of wonder which I cast
    On those heroic forms. When they went forth,
    it seem'd as though Olympus from her womb
    Had cast the heroes of a by-gone world,
    To frighten Ilion; and, above them all,
    Great Agamemnon tower'd pre-eminent!
    Oh tell me! Fell the hero in his home,
    Though Clytemnestra's and Ægisthus' wiles?

    He fell!

    Unblest Mycene! Thus the sons
    Of Tantalus, with barbarous hands, have sown
    Curse upon curse; and, as the shaken weed
    Scatters around a thousand poison-seeds,
    So they assassins ceaseless generate,
    Their children's children ruthless to destroy.--
    Now tell the remnant of thy brother's tale,
    Which horror darkly hid from me before.
    How did the last descendant of the race,--
    The gentle child, to whom the Gods assign'd
    The office of avenger,--how did he
    Escape that day of blood? Did equal fate
    Around Orestes throw Avernus' net?
    Say, was he saved? and is he still alive?
    And lives Electra, too?

    They both survive.

    Golden Apollo, lend thy choicest beams!
    Lay them an offering at the throne of Jove!
    For I am poor and dumb.

    If social bonds
    Or ties more close connect thee with this house,
    As this thy joy evinces, rein thy heart;
    For insupportable the sudden plunge
    From happiness to sorrow's gloomy depth.
    As yet thou only know'st the hero's death.

    And is not this intelligence enough?

    Half of the horror yet remains untold,

    Electra and Orestes both survive,
    What have I then to fear?

    And fear'st thou nought
    For Clytemnestra?

    Her, nor hope nor fear
    Have power to save.

    She to the land of hope
    Hath bid farewell.

    Did her repentant hand
    Shed her own blood?

    Not so; yet her own blood
    Inflicted death.

    Speak less ambiguously.
    Uncertainty around my anxious head
    Her dusky, thousand-folded, pinion waves.

    Have then the powers above selected me
    To be the herald of a dreadful deed,
    Which, in the drear and soundless realms of night,
    I fain would hide for ever? 'Gainst my will
    Thy gentle voice constrains me; it demands,
    And shall receive, a tale of direst woe.
    Electra, on the day when fell her sire,
    Her brother from impending doom conceal'd;
    Him Strophius, his father's relative,
    With kindest care receiv'd, and rear'd the child
    With his own son, named Pylades, who soon
    Around the stranger twin'd the bonds of love.
    And as they grew, within their inmost souls
    There sprang the burning longing to revenge
    The monarch's death. Unlookd for, and disguis'd,
    They reach Mycene, feigning to have brought
    The mournful tidings of Orestes' death,
    Together with his ashes. Them the queen
    Gladly receives. Within the house they enter;
    Orestes to Electra shows himself:
    She fans the fires of vengeance into flame,
    Which in the sacred presence of a mother
    Had burn'd more dimly. Silently she leads
    Her brother to the spot where fell their sire;
    Where lurid blood-marks, on the oft-wash'd floor,
    With pallid streaks, anticipate revenge.
    With fiery eloquence she pictures forth
    Each circumstance of that atrocious deed,--
    Her own oppress'd and miserable life,
    The prosperous traitor's insolent demeanour,
    The perils threat'ning Agamemnon's race
    From her who had become their stepmother;
    Then in his hand the ancient dagger thrusts,
    Which often in the house of Tantalus
    With savage fury rag'd,--and by her son
    Is Clytemnestra slain.

    Immortal powers!
    Whose pure and blest existence glides away
    'Mid ever shifting clouds, me have ye kept
    So many years secluded from the world,
    Retain'd me near yourselves, consign'd to me
    The childlike task to feed the sacred fire,
    And taught my spirit, like the hallow'd flame,
    With never-clouded brightness to aspire
    To your pure mansions,--but at length to feel
    With keener woe the misery of my house?
    Oh tell me of the poor unfortunate!
    Speak of Orestes!

    Would that he were dead!
    Forth from his mother's blood her ghost arose,
    And to the ancient daughters of the night
    Cries,--"Let him not escape,--the matricide!
    Pursue the victim, dedicate to you!"
    They hear, and glare around with hollow eyes,
    Like greedy eagles. In their murky dens
    They stir themselves, and from the corners creep
    Their comrades, dire Remorse and pallid Fear;
    Before them fumes a mist of Acheron;
    Perplexingly around the murderer's brow
    The eternal contemplation of the past
    Rolls in its cloudy circles. Once again
    The grisly band, commissioned to destroy,
    Pollute earth's beautiful and heaven-sown fields,
    From which an ancient curse had banish'd them.
    Their rapid feet the fugitive pursue;
    They only pause to start a wilder fear.

    Unhappy one; thy lot resembles his,
    Thou feel'st what he, poor fugitive, must suffer.

    What say'st thou? why presume my fate like his?

    A brother's murder weighs upon thy soul;
    Thy younger brother told the mournful tale.

    I cannot suffer that thy noble soul
    Should be deceiv'd by error. Rich in guile,
    And practis'd in deceit, a stranger may
    A web of falsehood cunningly devise
    To snare a stranger;--between us be truth.
    I am Orestes! and this guilty head
    Is stooping to the tomb, and covets death;
    It will be welcome now in any shape.
    Whoe'er thou art, for thee and for my friend
    I wish deliverance;--I desire it not.
    Thou seem'st to linger here against thy will;
    Contrive some means of flight, and leave me here:
    My lifeless corpse hurl'd headlong from the rock,
    My blood shall mingle with the dashing waves,
    And bring a curse upon this barbarous shore!
    Return together home to lovely Greece,
    With joy a new existence to commence.
    [ORESTES _retires_.

    At length Fulfilment, fairest child of Jove,
    Thou dost descend upon me from on high!
    How vast thine image! scarce my straining eye
    Can reach thy hands, which, fill'd with golden fruit
    And wreaths of blessing, from Olympus' height
    Shower treasures down. As by his bounteous gifts
    We recognize the monarch (for what seems
    To thousands opulence is nought to him),
    So you, ye heavenly Powers, are also known
    By bounty long withheld, and wisely plann'd.
    Ye only know what things are good for us;
    Ye view the future's wide-extended realm;
    While from our eye a dim or starry veil
    The prospect shrouds. Calmly ye hear our prayers,
    When we like children sue for greater speed.
    Not immature ye pluck heaven's golden fruit;
    And woe to him, who with impatient hand,
    His date of joy forestalling, gathers death.

    Let not this long-awaited happiness,
    Which yet my heart hath scarcely realiz'd,
    Like to the shadow of departed friends,
    Glide vainly by with triple sorrow fraught!

    ORESTES, _returning_.
    Dost thou for Pylades and for thyself
    Implore the gods, blend not my name with yours;
    Thou wilt not save the wretch whom thou wouldst join,
    But wilt participate his curse and woe.

    My destiny is firmly bound to thine.

    No, say not so; alone and unattended
    Let me descend to Hades. Though thou shouldst
    In thine own veil enwrap the guilty one.
    Thou couldst not shroud him from his wakeful foes;
    And e'en thy sacred presence, heavenly maid,
    Drives them aside, but scares them not away.
    With brazen impious feet they dare not tread
    Within the precincts of this sacred grove:
    Yet in the distance, ever and anon,
    I hear their horrid laughter, like the howl
    Of famish'd wolves, beneath the tree wherein
    The traveller hides. Without, encamp'd they lie,
    And should I quit this consecrated grove,
    Shaking their serpent locks, they would arise,
    And, raising clouds of dust on every side,
    Ceaseless pursue their miserable prey.

    Orestes, canst thou hear a friendly word?

    Reserve it for one favour'd by the gods.

    To thee they give anew the light of hope.

    Through clouds and smoke I see the feeble gleam
    Of the death-stream which lights me down to hell.

    Hast thou one sister only, thy Electra?

    I knew but one: yet her kind destiny,
    Which seem'd to us so terrible, betimes
    Removed an elder sister from the woe
    That dogs the race of Pelops. Cease, oh cease
    Thy questions, maiden, nor thus league thyself
    With the Eumenides, who blow away,
    With fiendish joy, the ashes from my soul,
    Lest the last spark of horror's fiery brand
    Should be extinguish'd there. Must then the fire,
    Deliberately kindl'd and supplied
    With hellish sulphur, never cease to sear
    My tortur'd bosom?

    In the flame I throw
    Sweet incense. Let the gentle breath of love,
    Low murmuring, cool thy bosom's fiery glow.
    Orestes, fondly lov'd,--canst thou not hear me?
    Hath the terrific Furies' grisly band
    Completely dried the life-blood in thy veins?
    Creeps there, as from the Gorgon's direful head,
    A petrifying charm through all thy limbs?
    If hollow voices, from a mother's blood,
    Call thee to hell, may not a sister's word
    With benediction pure ascend to heaven,
    And summon thence some gracious power to aid thee?

    She calls! she calls!--Thou too desir'st my death?
    Is there a fury shrouded in thy form?
    Who art thou, that thy voice thus horribly
    Can harrow up my bosom's inmost depths?

    Thine inmost heart reveals it. I am she,
    Iphigenia,--look on me, Orestes!


    My own brother!

    Hence, away, begone!
    Touch not these locks, I counsel thee; from me,
    As from Creusa's bridal robe, proceeds
    An unextinguishable fire. Depart!
    Like Hercules, an ignominious death,
    Unworthy wretch, look'd in myself, I'll die.

    Thou shalt not perish! Would that I might hear
    One quiet word from thee! dispel my doubts,
    Make sure the bliss I have implor'd so long.
    A wheel of joy and sorrow in my heart
    Ceaseless revolves. With shy reserve I turn
    From one unknown; but unto thee, my brother,
    My inmost heart resistlessly impels me.

    Is this Lyæus' temple? Doth the glow
    Of holy rage unbridl'd thus possess
    The sacred priestess?

    Hear me, oh, look up!
    See how my heart, which hath been clos'd so long,
    Doth open to the bliss of seeing thee,
    The dearest treasure that the world contains,--
    Of falling on thy neck, and folding thee
    Within my longing arms, which have till now
    Met the embraces of the empty wind.
    Do not repulse me,--the eternal spring,
    Whose crystal waters from Parnassus flow,
    Bounds not more gaily on from rock to rock,
    Down to the golden vale, than from my heart
    The waters of affection freely gush,
    And round me form a circling sea of bliss.
    Orestes! Oh, my brother!

    Lovely nymph!
    Nor thy caresses, nor thyself I trust;
    Diana claims attendants more severe,
    And doth avenge her desecrated fane.
    Remove thy circling arm! and if thou wilt
    Safety and love upon a youth bestow,
    Unto my friend, more worthy than myself,
    Impart thy gifts; among yon rocks he roves;
    Go seek him, guide him hence, and heed not me.

    Brother, command thyself, and better know
    Thy new-found sister, nor misconstrue thus
    Her pure and heav'nly joy. Ye Gods, remove
    From his fix'd eye delusion, lest this hour
    Of highest bliss should make us trebly wretched!
    Oh she is here, thine own, thy long-lost sister,
    Whom great Diana from the altar snatch'd,
    And safely plac'd here in her sacred fane.
    A captive thou, prepar'd for sacrifice,
    And findest here a sister in the priestess.

    Accursed race! Now may the sun behold
    Your final doom. Is not Electra here?
    That she with us may perish, nor her life
    For heavier doom and deeper woe reserve.
    'Tis well,--I follow, priestess! Fratricide
    Is an old custom of our ancient house;
    And you, ye Gods, I thank, that ye resolve
    Childless to root me hence. Thee let me counsel
    To view too fondly neither sun nor stars.
    Come follow to the gloomy realms below!
    As dragons, gender'd in the sulphur pool,
    Swallow each other with voracious rage,
    So our accurs'd race destroys itself.
    Childless and guiltless come below with me!
    There's pity in thy look! oh, gaze not so,--
    'Twas with such looks that Clytemnestra sought
    An entrance to her son Orestes' heart,
    And yet his uprais'd arm her bosom pierc'd.
    His mother fell!--Appear, indignant shade!
    Within the circle step, ye fiends of hell,
    Be present at the welcome spectacle,
    The last, most horrible, that ye prepare!
    Nor hate, nor vengeance, whets the poignard now,
    A sister is constrain'd to deal the blow.
    Weep not! Thy guiltless soul is free from crime.
    From earliest infancy I nought have lov'd,
    As thee I could have lov'd, my sister. Come,
    The weapon raise, spare not, this bosom rend,
    And make an outlet for its boiling streams!
    (_He sinks exhausted._)

    Alone I cannot bear this bliss and woe.
    Where art thou, Pylades? Thine aid I need.
    (_Iphigenia retires_.)


    _Recovering from his swoon and standing up_.

    Give yet another! reach from Lethe's stream
    The last reviving draught of cool refreshment!
    Soon shall its waters in my bosom still
    Life's fitful fever; and my spirit then
    Adown oblivion's stream shall glide to you,
    Ye spirits, shrouded in eternal mist.
    With tranquil pleasure in your deep repose
    A weary son of earth may lave his soul!--
    What whisp'ring sounds pervade the dreary grove?
    What hollow murmurs haunt its twilight gloom?--
    They gather round to view the stranger guest!
    Who are yon troop in high communion met,
    Like an assembl'd family of princes?
    They mingle peacefully, of every age,
    And either sex, yet are their godlike forms
    Cast in a kindred mould. 'Tis they, 'tis they,
    The fathers of my race! With Atreus,
    In friendly converse glides Thyestes' shade,
    And children playfully around them sport.
    Is there no enmity among you now?
    And is revenge extinguish'd with the sun?
    I then am welcome, and may hope to join
    Your solemn company. My fathers, hail!
    Orestes, last descendant of your race,
    Salutes you. What ye sow'd, that hath he reap'd
    Laden with curses he descends to you.
    But burdens here are lighter far to bear.
    Receive him, oh, receive him in your circle!
    Thee, Atreus, I revere, and thee, Thyestes:
    Here all are free from enmity and hate.--
    Show me my father, whom I only once
    In life beheld.--Art thou my father, thou,
    My mother leading thus familiarly?
    Dares Clytemnestra reach her hand to thee;
    Then may Orestes also draw near her,
    And say, behold thy son!--My ancestors,
    Behold your son, and bid him welcome here,
    Among the sons of ancient Tantalus,
    A kind salute on earth was murder's watchword,
    And all their joys commence beyond the grave.
    Ye welcome me! Ye bid me join your circle!
    Oh, lead me to my honour'd ancestor!
    Where is the aged hero? that I may
    Behold the dear, the venerable head,
    Of him, who with the gods in council sat.
    You seem to shudder and to turn away?
    What may this mean? Suffers the godlike man?
    Alas! the mighty gods, with ruthless hate,
    To his heroic breast, with brazen chains,
    Have cruel pangs indissolubly bound.



    How! are ye come already? Sister, welcome.
    Electra still is missing: some kind god
    With gentle arrow send her quickly hither.
    Thee, my poor friend, I must compassionate!
    Come with me, come to Pluto's gloomy throne.
    There to salute our hosts like stranger guests.

    Celestial pair, who from the realms above
    By night and day shed down the beauteous light
    To cheer mankind, but who may not illume
    Departed spirits, save a mortal pair!
    A brother's and a sister's anguish pity!
    For thou, Diana, lov'st thy gentle brother
    Beyond what earth and heaven can offer thee
    And dost, with quiet yearning, ever turn
    Thy virgin face to his eternal light.
    Let not my only brother, found so late,
    Rave in the darkness of insanity!
    And is thy will, when thou didst here conceal me,
    At length fulfill'd,--would'st thou to me through him,
    To him through me, thy gracious aid extend,--
    Oh, free him from the fetters of this curse,
    Lest vainly pass the precious hours of safety.

    Dost thou not know us, and this sacred grove,
    And this blest light, which shines not on the dead?
    Dost thou not feel thy sister and thy friend,
    Who hold thee living in their firm embrace?
    Grasp us! we are not shadows. Mark my words!
    Collect thyself,--each moment now is precious,
    And our return hangs on a slender thread,
    Which, as it seems, some gracious fate doth spin.

    My sister, let me for the first time taste,
    With open heart, pure joy within thine arms!
    Ye gods, who charge the heavy clouds with dread,
    And sternly gracious send the long-sought rain
    With thunder and the rush of mighty winds,
    A horrid deluge on the trembling earth;
    Yet dissipate at length man's dread suspense,
    Exchanging timid wonder's anxious gaze
    For grateful looks and joyous songs of praise,
    When in each sparkling drop which gems the leaves,
    Apollo, thousand-fold, reflects his beam,
    And Iris colours with a magic hand
    The dusky texture of the parting clouds;
    Oh, let me also in my sister's arms,
    And on the bosom of my friend, enjoy
    With grateful thanks the bliss ye now bestow
    My heart assures me that your curses cease.
    The dread Eumenides at length retire,
    The brazen gates of Tartarus I hear
    Behind them closing with a thund'ring clang.
    A quick'ning odour from the earth ascends,
    Inviting me to chase, upon its plains,
    The joys of life and deeds of high emprise.

    Lose not the moments which are limited!
    The favouring gale, which swells our parting sail,
    Must to Olympus waft our perfect joy.
    Quick counsel and resolve the time demands.
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