Orestes.
Apollo lord! swarming they press around,
And from their eyes there drippeth loathsome gore.
Chorus.
One cleanser hast thou, cling to Loxias,
He will uphold thee, and will free from bale.
Orestes.
These shapes ye see not, but I see them. Lo, 1050
They drive me forth,—no longer can I bide.
Chorus.
But blessings on thee, and, in direst strait,
May He who views thee graciously protect!
[While singing the following Ode the Chorus enters the palace.]
Now in Mycenae's royal halls,
The storm, o'er Atreus' race that lowers,
Running its course, for the third time hath burst.
Child-devouring horror first,
Brooded o'er these walls;
Next a monarch's deadly bale,
When the chief whom we bewail,
War-leader to Achaea's martial powers, 1060
In the bath lay dead.
Now, behold a third is come,—
Saviour, shall I say, or doom?
From what quarter sped?
Full-accomplished, when shall Fate,
Lulled to rest, her stormy ire abate?
