ELECTRA
Think on thy kinsfolk whom afflictions press
Than thine no less,
Iphianassa and Chrysothemis.
Think of thy brother; sorrow now is his,
An exiled youth, yet shortly shall he come
By heaven’s good guidance home,
And glad Mycenae shall Orestes own
Heir to his father’s throne.
Electra
Yea, for him long years I wait,
Unwed, childless, desolate,
Drenched with tears that ever flow
For my barren load of woe;
And the wrongs whereof he wot,
Or hath heard, are all forgot.
All those messages are vain—
How he hopes to come again,
How for home his heart doth yearn!—
Yet he wills not to return.
Chorus
(Ant. 2)
Take heart, my child, Zeus still in heaven is king,
And orders everything;
To him commit the wrath that gnaws thy breast,
His will is ever best.
Nurse, as is meet, thy vengeance, but abate
Excess of hate,
For Time can heal, a gentle god and mild.
Nor Agamemnon’s child
Who long by Crisa’s pastoral shore remains,
Nor he who reigns
O’er Acheron will nevermore relent.
Electra
Nay but for me is spent
The best of life; I languish in despair.
