Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Orestes had kill'd his Mother Clytemnestra, in Revenge of his Father's Death, who was murder'd by Her. This Part of the Story is the Subject of the Electra of Sophocles, where, in the Conclusion of the Play, Clytemnestra is heard behind the Scene crying out in vain for Mercy, while her Son is executing his Revenge. Perhaps this Play was written first; and Euripides took up the Story where the other left off. The Reflexion on his Guilt in putting his Mother to Death, tho' a Criminal, with his own Hands, fill'd Orestes's Mind with so much Horror as afterwards caus'd his Distraction. In this Condition he is represented in the following Scene, lying on a Couch, and his Sister Electra, with a Chorus of Græcian Women, waiting near him.

I shall detain the Reader no longer than to observe, that the Tenderness of Electra, and the alternate Starts and Returns of Madness and Reason in Orestes, are touch'd with the most exquisite Strokes of Nature and Passion.

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CHORUS, ORESTES, ELECTRA.
Chorus.
Draw near, Electra, to thy Brother's Couch;
See if he breathes; this long-protracted Rest
May end in Death, and fatally deceive thee.

Orestes,
waking.
O sweet refreshing Sleep! thou balmy Cure
Of Sickness and of Pain!
How has thy gentle Pow'r at length reliev'd me!
O soft Oblivion of surrounding Ills,
How grateful to th'Afflicted are thy Charms!
Where am I?—speak—inform me, tell me where?
How came I hither? for I know not how!
Alas! I've lately been bereft of Reason!
And now, no Track of former Thought remains.

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Electra.
O my much-lov'd Orestes! O my Brother!
With Joy I've watch'd o'er thy late healing Slumbers.
Come—shall I help to raise thee from thy Couch?

Orestes.
Soft, I pray thee—first wipe away these Drops,
That sit all dewy o'er my Face.

Electra.
Ye Gods!
How pleasant is this Task to a Sister's Love!

Orestes.
Come, let me lean upon thee;—how canst thou bear me?—
Put forth thy Hand; remove the clotted Locks,
That shade my Sight; I scarcely yet can see—

Electra.
O my poor Brother; how has Sickness chang'd thee!
Thy Face, thy Beard, so long unwash'd, deform thee,
And spread an unknown Horror o'er thy Mien.

Orestes.
I'm weary;—lead me to my Couch again.
When my Fit leaves me, I am weak and faint,
And a cold Trembling runs thro' all my Limbs.

Electra.
How friendly is the Sick Man's Bed; tho' Pain
Dwell there, yet there he best may bear it.

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Orestes.
O! help once more; and gently bend me forward.

Chorus.
The Sick are ever restless;
Uneasiness and Pain make them impatient.

Electra.
Wilt thou get up, and try again to walk?
Change will perhaps relieve thee.

Orestes.
I fain wou'd walk—and, seeming well awhile,
Delude my anxious Thoughts.

Electra.
Now hear me, Brother;
Hear me, while yet the cruel Furies leave thee,
This Pause from Grief, this Interval of Reason.

Orestes.
Speak quick thy News—if it be good, 'tis welcome;
If ill—I've Load enough; nor add thou more.

Electra.
Then know, thy Uncle Menelaus comes;
His Ship is in the Port—

Orestes.
What dost thou say?—
He comes, like dawning Light, to chear our Griefs,
And chace away the Blackness of Despair;
My Father's Brother, and his best-lov'd Friend!

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Electra.
He's now arriv'd—and brings from conquer'd Troy
His beauteous Helen—

Orestes.
Say'st thou?—better far
He came alone—and he alone surviving;
But if with Helen—then he brings a Curse,
A heavy Curse—

Electra.
The Race of Tyndarus
Have thro' all Greece spread Infamy and Shame.

Orestes.
Beware then—shun the Deeds of impious Women.
Wear no false Face—Be good, as well as seem so—
Beware, I say—

Electra.
Alas! what means my Brother? You are chang'd.
Your Colour shifts—your Eyes look fiercely wild—
Your Fit returns—O Heav'ns! he's lost again.

Orestes.
Mother, forbear!—What! no Forgiveness—never?
O! take away those Furies—how they shake
Their Snaky Locks, and grin around me!

Electra.
Alas! poor Wretch; 'tis thy own Fear alarms thee.
Compose thyself: Why dost thou leave thy Couch?

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Here are no Fiends; thou talk'st to shapeless Air.

Orestes.
Help, help me, Phœbus—See, those Dogs of Hell
With famish'd Jaws gape horrid to devour me!
Th'Infernal Priestesses look fiercely on me;
They thirst for Blood, and I'm the destin'd Victim!

Electra.
Nay, strive not—for I will not let thee go,
While these weak Arms can fold thee—

Orestes.
What art thou?
One of my curst Tormentors?—Hence—I know thee;
Thou grasp'st me thus to plunge me down to Hell.

Electra.
Oh! whence can wretched Mortals hope for Succour,
When Heav'n is deaf, and all the Gods our Foes!

Orestes.
Reach me the Weapons of the shooting God,
Apollo's Gift, the Shafts and horny Bow;
With these he bade me drive the Fiends away,
When cruel, they attack me—

Electra.
Can they feel?
Can deathless Beings feel a mortal Wound?

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Orestes.

They shall—or leave my tortur'd Sight—behold!
Dost thou not see their feather'd Shafts fly round me?
Begone, ye Ministers of Wrath—Away! away!
The Guilt's not mine—Hence, thro' the yielding Skies,
Fly swift to Heav'n—and charge Apollo there,
Whose Oracle betray'd me—Ah! I faint;
My Spirits sink—Where am I now? Alas!
How have I left my Bed?—how stray'd I hither?
Oh—I perceive—once more the raging Waves
Have spent their Force—and all is calm again—
My Sister?—weeping too? Why dost thou turn
Thy Face away, thus muffled in thy Garment?
I grieve to think what I have made thee suffer;
I know, my Sickness bears too hard upon thee;
Yet weep not for my Crimes, unhappy Maid!
The Deed was mine—Thou only didst consent:
'Twas I that slew my Mother—Phœbus himself
Advis'd that impious Act—the Guilt be his,
Whose Words spoke Comfort, but who now forsakes me.
But oh! Electra, had our Father's Shade
Been present then—had I, before the God,
Ask'd his Consent, to strike the Murd'ress dead,
The pitying Manes sure had stop'd my hand,
Nor wou'd have wish'd for his own Life again,

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Redeem'd by Guilt, so horrid in a Son.

Now wipe away thy Tears, lamenting Maid;
Tho' we're both wretched, Tears are shed in vain;
And when thou seest again my faltring Reason,
Be ready thou to rule my broken Sense,
And comfort my Affliction—And when thou
Shalt sink beneath thy pressing Woes, I'll strive
By soothing Words to mitigate thy Sorrows.
Such Offices become our fond Affection.

But now, retiring to thy own Apartment,
Let gentle Slumber close thy wakeful Eyes;
Then rise refresh'd; anoint thy wearied Limbs,
And with due Nourishment recruit thy Spirits.
Such ceaseless Watchings will exhaust thy Strength,
And make thy languid Life a Burden to thee.
Thou seest, all other Friends are fled; thou art
My only Solace in this dire Affliction.
Shou'dst thou forsake me too, I'm lost indeed.

Electra.

O no! thy Sister never will forsake thee;
Nor only will I live, but die with thee;
What Joy cou'd Life afford a wretched Woman,
Bereft of Father, Brother, every Friend?—

But if you so command, I will retire;
In the mean while, compose thyself to rest,
Reclin'd upon thy Couch; nor let vain Terrors

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Rouze thee again—Thy own upbraiding Conscience
Is the revengeful Fiend, that haunts thy Breast!