That the Sun from that vision turned backward the glory
Of the gold of the face of his flaming throne,
With the scourge of his wrath in affliction repaying 740
Mortals for deeds in their mad feuds done:—
Yet it may be the tale liveth, soul-affraying,
To bow us to Godward in lowly obeying.
O mother of princes,[1] it rose not before thee
Mid thy lord's moan, staying thine hand from the slaying!
Ha, friends!
Heard ye a great voice—or am I beguiled
Of fancy?—like earth-muffled thunder of Zeus?
Lo there, the gale is swelling all too plain!
Princess, come forth thine house!—Electra, come! 750
Enter Electra.
Electra.
Friends, what befalls?—how doth our conflict speed?
Chorus.
I know but this, I hear a cry of death.
Electra.
I also hear—far off—yet oh, I hear!
Chorus.
Faint from the distance stole the cry, yet clear.
- ↑ Klytemnestra.
