Oracular, that I might learn whereby
To punish home the murderers of my sire,
Had word from Phoebus which you straight shall hear: 
’No shielded host, but thine own craft, O King! 
The righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.’ 
Then, since the will of Heaven is so revealed,
Go thou within, when Opportunity
Shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all
Their business, bring us certain cognizance. 
Age and long absence are a safe disguise;
They never will suspect thee who thou art. 
And let thy tale be that another land,
Phocis, hath sent thee forth, and Phanoteus,
Than whom they have no mightier help in war. 
Then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news,
Orestes’ death by dire mischance, down-rolled
From wheel-borne chariot in the Pythian course. 
So let the fable be devised; while we,
As Phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks
Shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown
My father’s sepulchre, and thence return
Bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze
That’s hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest,
And bring them welcome tidings, that my form
Is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire. 
How should this pain me, in pretence being dead,
Really to save myself and win renown? 
No saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain. 
Oft have I known the wise, dying in word,
Return with glorious salutation home. 
So lightened by this rumour shall mine eye
Blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies. 
O native earth! and Gods that hold the land,
Accept me here, and prosper this my way! 
Thou, too, paternal hearth!  To thee I come,
Justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven. 
Send me not bootless, Gods, but let me found
A wealthy line of fair posterity! 
I have spoken.  To thy charge! and with good heed
Perform it.  We go forth.  The Occasion calls,
Great taskmaster of enterprise to men.

ELECTRA (within).  Woe for my hapless lot!

OLD M. Hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came
A moaning cry, as of some maid within.

OR.  Can it be poor Electra?  Shall we stay,
And list again the lamentable sound?

OLD M. Not so.  Before all else begin the attempt
To execute Apollo’s sovereign will,
Pouring libation to thy sire:  this makes
Victory ours, and our success assured. [Exeunt

Enter ELECTRA.

MONODY.

EL.  O purest light! 
And air by earth alone
Measured and limitable, how oft have ye
Heard many a piercing moan,
Many a blow full on my bleeding breast,
When gloomy night
Hath slackened pace and yielded to the day! 
And through the hours of rest,
Ah! well ’tis known
To my sad pillow in yon house of woe,
What vigil of scant joyance keeping,
Whiles all within are sleeping,
For my dear father without stint I groan,