SCENE THE FIFTH.
Scene, a dark prison.
ORESTES
, solus, lying at his length.
What more than midnight darkness!—the keen air,
Sharpen'd with noisome vapours that transpire
From the moist pavement and the clammy walls,
Chills, as it runs, the current of my blood.
Here I can give a scope to mournful musings—
Can to distraction ruminate—and curse,
If cursing would avail—my wayward fortune.
[Rises.
Where are the golden hopes that yester sun
Saw tow'ring to the skies?—My flatt'ring dreams
Of royalty regain'd—and great revenge?
All are a grasp of air—a gather'd beam
From heav'n's resplendent orb!—what I am—nothing.
Hark!—heard I not a noise?—Surely the voice
Of soft-complaining sorrow!—'Tis Electra's—
Unhappy sister!—
[Shrieking behind.
Ah! that melting cry!—
The ministers of fate are there at work!
Why, blood-hounds, would ye not begin with me,
And spare my soul this anguish?
[Shrieking again.
—What, another!—
O agonizing sound!—And where's the aid,
In this distress, a brother should afford?
O for a more than mortal force, to break
These iron-bolted doors and marble walls,
That I might rush, and rescue her from slaughter.
Hark!—all is hush'd—the dreadful work's perform'd!
The lamb of innocence is sacrific'd
To hell-born tyranny and black revenge.
But see—an op'ning door—a taper's blaze—
The dawn of death is breaking in upon me!
Advance fell instruments—immortal Gods!—
My sister!—my Electra!—
