University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Orestes and Pylades.
ORESTES.
Well, my Pylades, have you seen my sister?
How does she fare in the maternal brothel?

PYLADES.
As a bright jewel among offal cast,
Her native purity remains unchang'd.
She lives apart a pious pensive life,
And weeps unheard her guilty mother's sin.

ORESTES.
And what of her, and the abhorr'd Egysthus?

PYLADES.
Rather than ask, imagine. Nothing chang'd
Is the wild flame of Clytemnestra's passion;
Though every day th'opprobrious paramour,
Insulting nature might provoke her scorn.

ORESTES.
And does my sister but bewail the guilt?
A loftier spirit better would become,
Atrides issue and exalted blood.

PYLADES.
But gentle is the fair Electra's soul,
And in her bosom, full of heavy sorrow,
The vex of indignation never stirs.—
Her meek and unrepining spirit shows
A holy brightness in its clouded sphere;
Like the pale moon that on the vapoury earth,
Sheds without heat the pure celestial light.

ORESTES.
Methinks I should have more courageous felt,
Did she possess the temper of revenge
To urge me if I shrunk.

PYLADES.
Have I not sworn
To bear my part, in this just enterprize,
Against Egysthus?

ORESTES.
—But high fate ordains
A greater act; and Agamemnon's shade
Demands a sacrifice to match his death.

PYLADES.
What mean you?

ORESTES.
—Justice.

PYLADES.
How!

ORESTES.
Full retribution.

PYLADES.
On whom?

ORESTES.
The guilty.

PYLADES.
What! your mother?

ORESTES.
Yes.—
Why turn you pale and look on me so strange?
I am Orestes! Agamemnon's son!
With him th'immortal halo first was thrown,
Around the helmed head of bloody war;
And men, up-rising from their sordid aims,
Were taught that wounds, yea death itself was gain,
When found in battle fought but for renown.
The unborn races of the utmost times,
The last circumf'rence of posterity,
Will sound applause to Agamemnon's name.
But he, with all his glory in its noon,
Was, by the demon of accurst desire,
Torn from his sphere, and like a falling star,
Extinguish'd in the world's astonished gaze;
And should not such a crime be all reveng'd?

PYLADES.
Think, Clytemnestra is your mother,—think.

ORESTES.
But justice no propinquity respects;
And fate, by all the tenour of my life,
Has shown me fashion'd for a solemn end.
Know! Heav'n at times sends forth predestined men
To stir the world, and from the sensual foul
To cleanse th'immortal element of thought.
Of such were Hercules and Theseus.
What toils they bore to rid the earth o'errun,
With hideous offspring of perverted passion!
My conscious spirit claims to rank itself
With their high phalanx, and by some great act
To give an epocha to history;
That sages wond'ring o'er the past may say,
“Such was the world before Orestes' time;
But his high-aim'd atchievement changing all;
Crimes, bold and catching once, like strange diseases,
Grew mild and vanish'd from the frame of man.”

PYLADES.
Sublime! Incomprehensible! This strange
And warm enthusiasm that pervades
Thy lofty spirit, has transform'd thy nature,
Lighting a purpose dark and terrible,
With such a flame of holy charity,
That I am aw'd, and tremble at thy virtue.
Thou art no more, Orestes! he with whom
My youthful pastimes were so gaily spent!
But I have sworn to be as true to this,
In his great business, as his own right hand.—
Lo, where your sister, fair Electra comes.