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llward springs I go? Not for mere stress of need, but purpose set, That never day nor night God may forget Aegisthus' sin: aye, and perchance a cry Cast forth to the waste shining of the sky May find my father's ear.... The woman bred Of Tyndareus, my mother--on her head Be curses!--from my house hath outcast me; She hath borne children to our enemy; She hath made me naught, she hath made Orestes naught.... [_As the bitterness of her tone increases, the_ PEASANT _comes forward._ PEASANT. What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft, And thou wilt cease not, serving without end? ELECTRA (_turning to him with impulsive affection_). O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend, Thou only hast not trampled on my tears. Life scarce can be so hard, 'mid many fears And many shames, when mortal heart can find Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure A little for thine easing, yea, or pour My strength out in thy toiling fellowship? Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep; 'Tis mine to make all bright within the door. 'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er, To find home waiting, full of happy things. PEASANT. If so it please thee, go thy way. The springs Are not far off. And I before the morn Must drive my team afield, and sow the corn In the hollows.--Not a thousand prayers can gain A man's bare bread, save an he work amain. [ELECTRA _and the_ PEASANT _depart on their several ways. After a few moments there enter stealthily two armed men,_ ORESTES _and_ PYLADES. ORESTES. Thou art the first that I have known in deed True and my friend, and shelterer of my need. Thou only, Pylades, of all that knew, Hast held Orestes of some worth, all through These years of helplessness, wherein I lie Downtrodden by the murderer--yea, and by The murderess, my mother!... I am come, Fresh from the cleansing of Apollo, home To Argos--and my coming no man yet Knoweth--to pay the bloody twain their debt Of blood. This very night I crept alone To my dead father's grave, and poured thereon My heart's first tears and tresses of my head New-shorn, and o'er the barrow of the dead Slew a black lamb, unknown of them that reign In this unhappy land.... I am not fain To pass the city gates, but hold me here Hard on the borders. So my road is clear To fly if men look
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