by thread,
'Tis I must weave it, or go bare--must bring,
Myself, each jar of water from the spring.
No holy day for me, no festival,
No dance upon the green! From all, from all
I am cut off. No portion hath my life
'Mid wives of Argos, being no true wife.
No portion where the maidens throng to praise
Castor--my Castor, whom in ancient days,
Ere he passed from us and men worshipped him,
They named my bridegroom!--
And she, she!... The grim
Troy spoils gleam round her throne, and by each hand
Queens of the East, my father's prisoners, stand,
A cloud of Orient webs and tangling gold.
And there upon the floor, the blood, the old
Black blood, yet crawls and cankers, like a rot
In the stone! And on our father's chariot
The murderer's foot stands glorying, and the red
False hand uplifts that ancient staff, that led
The armies of the world!... Aye, tell him how
The grave of Agamemnon, even now,
Lacketh the common honour of the dead;
A desert barrow, where no tears are shed,
No tresses hung, no gift, no myrtle spray.
And when the wine is in him, so men say,
Our mother's mighty master leaps thereon,
Spurning the slab, or pelteth stone on stone,
Flouting the lone dead and the twain that live:
"Where is thy son Orestes? Doth he give
Thy tomb good tendance? Or is all forgot?"
So is he scorned because he cometh not....

O Stranger, on my knees, I charge thee, tell
This tale, not mine, but of dumb wrongs that swell
Crowding--and I the trumpet of their pain,
This tongue, these arms, this bitter burning brain;
These dead shorn locks, and he for whom they died!
His father slew Troy's thousands in their pride;
He hath but one to kill.... O God, but one!
Is he a man, and Agamemnon's son?

LEADER.

But hold: is this thy husband from the plain,
His labour ended, hasting home again?

_Enter the_ PEASANT.

PEASANT.

Ha, who be these? Strange men in arms before
My house! What would they at this lonely door?
Seek they for me?--Strange gallants should not stay
A woman's goings.

ELECTRA.

Friend and helper!--Nay,
Think not of any evil. These men be
Friends of Orestes, charged with words for me!...
Strangers, forgive his speech.

PEASANT.

What word have they
Of him? At least he lives and sees the day!

ELECTRA.

So fares their tale--and sure I doubt it not!

PEASANT.

And ye two still are living in his thought,
Thou and his father?