Chorus.
Alas for thy lot! Their mother wast thou,
And horrors and anguish no words may tell
At thy children's hands thou hast suffered now!
Yet justly the blow for their sire's blood fell.
Orestes.
(Ant. 1)
Phœbus, the deed didst thou commend, 1190
Aye whispering "Justice"—thou hast bared
The deeds of darkness, and made end,
Through Greece, of lust that murder dared.
But me what land shall shield?—what friend,
What righteous man shall bear to see
The slayer of his mother—me?
Electra.
Woe's me! What refuge shall what land give me?
O feet from the dance aye banned! O spousal-hopeless hand!
What lord to a bridal-bower shall receive me? 1200
Chorus.
Again have thy thoughts veered round, yet again!
Now right is thine heart, which was then not right
When to deeds of horror didst thou constrain
Thy brother, O friend, in his heart's despite.
Orestes.
(Str. 2)
Didst thou mark, how the hapless, clinging, clinging
To my mantle, bared her bosom in dying—
Woe's me!—and even to the earth bowed low
The limbs that bare me, mine heart-strings wringing?
