O'er the land as a beacon the exile that strayed
From his father's halls, while the years dragged by
In misery.
Victory! God unto us is bringing 590
Victory, O my friend!
Lift up thine hands and thy voice upringing
In prayers to the Gods, that, with Fortune flinging
Her shield round about him, thy brother through Argos' gates may wend! 595
Orestes.
Hold—the sweet bliss of greeting I receive
Of thee, hereafter must I render back.[1]
But, ancient—for in season hast thou come,—
Say, how shall I requite my father's slayer,
And her that shares his guilty couch, my mother? 600
Have I in Argos any loyal friend,
Or, like my fortunes, am I bankrupt all?
With whom to league me?—best were night, or day?
What path shall I essay to assault my foes?
Old Man.
Ah son, no friend hast thou in thy misfortune. 605
Nay, but this thing as treasure-trove is rare,
That one should share thine evil as thy good.
Since thou art wholly, as touching friends, bereft,—
Art even hope-forlorn,—be assured of me,
In thine own hand and fortune is thine all 610
For winning father's house and city again.
Orestes.
What shall I do then, to attain thereto?
- ↑ A commercial metaphor, used of a deposit to be repaid.
