 | Orestes |  |
SCENE THE THIRTEENTH.
Orestes, Pylades, Electra.Ores.
Oh wherefore sad, my better part,
Art thou? Dost thou not know that I have kill'd,
I, that usurper? See; my weapon still
Is reeking with his blood. Ah! thou with me
The triumph hast not shared! Do thou then feast
Thine eyes upon this spectacle.
Py.
Oh sight!—
Orestes, give to me that sword.
Ores.
For what?
364
Give it to me.
Ores.
Then take it.
Py.
Hear me.—Now
It is no longer lawful in this land
For us to tarry: come ...
Ores.
But what? ...
Elec.
Ah! speak:
Say where is Clytemnestra?
Ores.
Name her not:
Perchance she now constructs the funeral pile
For her flagitious husband.
Py.
More, far more,
Thou hast consummated than thy revenge:
Now come; ask nothing further ...
Ores.
Oh! what say'st thou ...
Elec.
My mother I reclaim of thee, oh Pylades.
Ah! through my veins what death-like chillness shoots! ...
Py.
The gods!
Elec.
Ah! dead perchance? ...
Ores.
Against herself
Infuriate has she turn'd her sword?
Elec.
Alas! ...
Oh Pylades! ... thou answerest not?
Ores.
Relate;
What has befallen her?
Py.
Transfix'd ...
Ores.
By whom?
Py.
Ah! come ...
Elec.
Thou killed'st her.
Ores.
I, parricide?
Py.
The sword thou unawares in her didst plunge,
Blinded by rage, rushing to assault Ægisthus.
365
What sudden horror seizes me! ... Am I
A parricide? ... That sword, oh Pylades,
Give me: once more ...
Py.
It shall not be.
Elec.
My brother ...
Py.
Wretched Orestes!
Ores.
Who now calls me brother?
Thou, impious woman, perhaps, who hast to life
Preserved me, and the murder of my mother?
Restore my sword; my sword, I say ... oh rage!
What have I done? Where am I? Who constrains me? ...
Who thus pursues me? ... Whither shall I fly?
Where shall I hide myself?—Oh father, father,
Take from me that stern eye; quite through and through
It pierces me ... Of me thou asked'st blood:
Here, here is blood; for thee alone I shed it.
Elec.
Orestes, dear Orestes ... wretched brother ...
No more he hears my voice; his sense is gone ...
Thou, Pylades, and I, will ne'er forsake him.
Py.
Oh horrid and inevitable law,
That when we would avenge, perpetuates guilt!
| Orestes | |