The bitter woe work forth,
Appease the summons of the dead,
The wrath of friends on earth;
Yea, set within a sign of blood and doom—
And do to titter death him that pollutes thy home.
Ægisthus.
Hither and not unsummoned have I come;
For a new rumour, borne by stranger men
Arriving hither, hath attained mine ears,
Of hap unwished-for, even Orestes' death.
This were new sorrow, a blood-bolter'd load
Laid on the house that doth already bow
Beneath a former wound that festers deep.
Dare I opine these words have truth and life?
Or are they tales, of woman's terror born,
That fly in the void air, and die disproved?
Canst thou tell aught, and prove it to my soul?
Chorus.
What we have heard, we heard; go thou within
Thyself to ask the strangers of their tale;
Strengthless are tidings, thro' another heard;
Question is his, to whom the tale is brought.
Ægisthus.
I too will meet and test the messenger,
Whether himself stood witness of the death,
Or tells it merely from dim rumour learnt:
None shall cheat me, whose soul hath watchful eyes.
Chorus.
Zeus, Zeus! what word to me is given?
What cry or prayer, invoking heaven,
