SCENE I.
IPHISA, PAMMENES.
IPHISA.
Sayest thou, Pammenes? shall these hated walls,
Where I so long have dragged a life of woe,
Afford at least the melancholy comfort
Of mingling sorrow with my dear Electra?
And will Ægisthus bring her to the tomb
Of Agamemnon, bring his daughter here,
To be a witness of the horrid pomp,
The sad solemnity, which on this day
Annual returns, to celebrate their crimes,
And make their guilt immortal?
PAMMENES.
O Iphisa,
Thou honored daughter of my royal master,
Like thee, confined within these lonely walls,
The secrets of a vile abandoned court
Do seldom reach Pammenes; but, ‘tis rumored,
The jealous tyrant brings Electra here,
Fearful lest Argos, by her cries alarmed,
Should rise to vengeance; every heart, he knows,
Feels for the injured princess, therefore much
He dreads her clamors; with a watchful eye
Observes her conduct, treats her as a slave,
And leads the captive to adorn his triumph.
IPHISA.
Good heaven! and must Electra be a slave!
Shall Agamemnon’s blood be thus disgraced
By a barbarian? Will her cruel mother,
Will Clytemnæstra bear the vile reproach
That on herself recoils, and all her race?
Perhaps my sister is too fierce of soul,
She mingles too much pride and bitterness
Of keen resentment with her griefs; alas!
Weak are her arms against a tyrant’s power:
What will her anger, what her pride avail her?
They only irritate a haughty foe,
And cannot serve our cause: my fate at least
Is milder, and this solitary state
Shields me from wrongs which must oppress Electra.
Far from my father’s foes, these pious hands
Can pay due offerings to his honored shade:
Far from his murderer, in this sad retreat
Freely I weep in peace, and curse Ægisthus:
I’m not condemned to see the tyrant here,
Save when the Sun unwillingly brings round
The fatal day that knit the dreadful tie,
When that inhuman monster shed the blood
Of Agamemnon, when base Clytemnæstra —
SCENE II.
ELECTRA, IPHISA, PAMMENES.
IPHISA.
O my Electra! art thou here? my sister —
ELECTRA.
The day of horror is returned, Iphisa:
The dreadful rites, the guilty feast prepared,
Have brought me hither; thy Electra comes,
Thy captive sister, comes a wretched slave,
To bear the tidings of their guilty joy.
IPHISA.
To see Electra is a blessing still,
It pours some joy into the bitter cup
Of sorrow, thus to mix my tears with thine.
ELECTRA.
Tears, my Iphisa! I have shed enough
Of them already: O thou bleeding ghost
Of my dead father, ever-honored shade,
Is that the tribute which I owe to thee?
I owe thee blood, and blood thou hast required;
Amidst the pomp of this dire festival,
Dragged by Ægisthus here, I will collect
My scattered spirits, shake off these vile chains,
And be my own avenger: yes, Iphisa,
This feeble arm shall reach the tyrant’s heart:
Did not the cruel Clytemnæstra shed
A husband’s blood? did I not see her lift
Her barbarous hand against him, and shall we
Suspend the blow, and let a murderer live?
O vengeance, and thou, animating virtue,
That dost inspire me, art thou not as bold
As daring guilt? we must revenge ourselves,
We must, Iphisa: fearest thou then to strike,
Fearest thou to die? shall Clytemnæstra’s daughter,
The blood of Atreus fear? O rather lend
Thy aid, and join the desperate Electra!
IPHISA.
My dearest sister, moderate thy rage,
And calm thy troubled mind: against our foes
What can we bring but unavailing tears?
Who will assist us? who will lend us arms?
Or how shall we surprise a watchful king,
For guilt is ever fearful, by his guards
Surrounded? why, Electra, wilt thou court
Perpetual danger? should the tyrant hear
Thy loud complaints, I tremble for thy life.
ELECTRA.
Why let him hear them? I would have my grief
Sink to his heart, and poison all his joys:
Yes; I would have my cries ascend to heaven,
And bring the thunder down; would have them raise
A hundred kings, who never yet have dared,
Unworthy cowards as they are, to avenge
Great Agamemnon: but I pardon thee,
And the vain terrors of thy fearful soul,
That shrinks at danger; for he favors you,
I know he does, and only crushes me
Beneath his iron yoke: thou hast not been,
Like me, a wretched persecuted slave;
Thou didst not see the impious parricide,
The horrid1 feast, the dire solemnity,
When Clytemnæstra — O the dreadful image
Is still before me, in this place, Iphisa,
Where now thou tremblest to declare thy wrongs,
There did these eyes behold our hapless father
Caught in the deadly snare: Pammenes heard
His dying groans, and ran with me to save him:
But when I came, what did I see! my mother
Plunging her ruthless dagger in his breast,
To rob him of the poor remains of life.
[Turning to Pammenes.
Thou sawest me take Orestes in my arms,
My dear Orestes; little knew he then
Of danger, but as near his murdered father
He stood, called out for aid to Clytemnæstra:
She, midst the horrors of the guilty scene,
Stopped for a moment short, and gave us time
Safe to convey the victim from Ægisthus.
Whether the tyrant has completed yet
The imperfect vengeance in Orestes’ blood,
I know not: O my brother, dost thou live,
Or hast thou followed thy unhappy father?
Alas! I weep for him, and fear for thee.
These hands are loaded with inglorious chains,
And these sad eyes, forever bathed in tears,
See naught but guilt, oppression, and despair.
PAMMENES.
Ye dear remains of Atreus’ honored race,
Whose splendor I have seen, whose woes I feel,
Permit a friend to fill your weeping souls
With cheerful hope, that ever waits propitious
To soothe affliction: call to mind what heaven
Long since hath promised, that its vengeful hand
Should one day lead Orestes to the place
Where we preserved him; that Ægisthus there,
Even at yon tomb, and on the fatal day
Marked for his impious triumph o’er the dead,
Should pay the forfeit of his crime: the Gods
Can ne’er deceive; in darkness still they veil
Their secret purpose from the eyes of men,
And punishment with slow but certain steps,
Still follows guilt.
IPHISA.
But wherefore stays so long
Their tardy vengeance? I have languished here
In grief and anguish many a tedious hour;
Electra, still more wretched, is in chains:
Meantime the proud oppressor lives in peace,
And glories in his crimes.
ELECTRA.
Thou seest, Pammenes,
Ægisthus still renews his cruel triumph,
And celebrates the fatal nuptials; still
A wretched exile lives my dear Orestes,
Forgetful of his father, and Electra.
PAMMENES.
But mark the course of time: he touches now
The age when manly strength, with courage joined,
May aid your purpose; hope for his return,
And trust in heaven.
ELECTRA.
We will: thou son of wisdom,
Thou good old man, O thou hast darted forth
A ray of hope on my despairing soul!
If with unpitying eye the gods beheld
Our miseries here, and proud oppression, still
Unpunished, trampled on the tender feet
Of innocence, what hand would crown their altars
With incense and oblation! but kind heaven
Will give Orestes to a sister’s arms,
And blast the tyrant: hear my voice, Orestes,
O hear thy country’s, hear the cries of blood,
That call thee forth; come from thy dreary caves,
And pathless deserts, where misfortune long
Hath tried thy courage; leave thy savage prey,
And all the roaming monsters of the forest,
To chase the beasts of Argos, to destroy
The tyrants of the earth, the murderers
Of kings; O haste, and let me guide thy hand
Even to the traitor’s breast.
IPHISA.
No more: repress
Thy griefs, Electra; see, thy mother comes.
ELECTRA.
And have I yet a mother?
SCENE III.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA, ELECTRA, IPHISA.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Hence, and leave me;
You may retire, Pammenes; stay, my daughters.
IPHISA.
Alas! that sacred name dispels my fears.
ELECTRA.
And doubles mine.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Touching your fate, my children,
I came to lay a mother’s heart before you.
Barren, thank heaven, hath been my second bed,
Nor brought a race of jealous foes to sow
Division here. Alas! my little race
Is almost run; the secret grief that long
Hath preyed on my sad heart will finish soon
A life of woe: spite of Ægisthus, still
I love my children; spite of all his rage,
Electra, thou who in thy infant years
So oft hast given me comfort, when the loss
Of Iphigenia, and her cruel father
Oppressed my soul; though now thy pride disdains me,
And braves my power, thou art my daughter still;
Unworthy as thou art, there’s still a place
In Clytemnæstra’s heart for her Electra.
ELECTRA.
For me! O heaven, and am I yet beloved;
And dost thou feel for thy unhappy daughter?
O, if thou dost, behold her chains, behold
Yon tomb —
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Unkind Electra, thus to wake
The sad remembrance! thou hast plunged a dagger
Into thy mother’s breast; but I deserve it.
ELECTRA.
Thou hast disarmed Electra, nature pleads
A mother’s cause; I own myself to blame
For all the bitterness of sorrow poured
In dreadful execrations on thy head.
By thee delivered to the tyrant’s power,
I would have torn thee from him; I lament,
But cannot hate thee. O, if gracious heaven
Hath touched thy soul with wholesome penitence,
Obey its sacred will, and hear the voice
Of conscience, that commands thee to unloose
The horrid ties that bind thee to a wretch
Despised and hated; follow the great God
Who leads thy footsteps to the paths of virtue;
Call back your son, let him return to fill
The throne of his great ancestors, to scourge
A tyrant, to avenge his murdered father,
His sisters, and his mother: haste and send
For my Orestes.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Talk no more of that,
Electra, nor speak thus of my Ægisthus:
I grieve to see thee in these shameful bonds;
But know, a sovereign cannot tamely brook
Repeated insults, or embrace a foe:
You had provoked him to, be cruel; I,
Who am but his first subject, oft have tried
To soothe his anger, but in vain: my words,
Instead of healing, but inflamed the wound:
Electra is indebted to herself
For all her deep-felt injuries; henceforth bend
To thy condition; let thy sister teach thee
That we must yield submissive to our fate,
If e’er we hope to change it. I could wish
To end my days in peace amongst my children;
But if thy rapid and imprudent zeal
Should bring Orestes here before the time,
His life might answer for it, and thy own,
If the king see him: though I pity thee,
Electra, yet I owe a husband more
Than a lost son, whom I have cause to fear.
ELECTRA.
O heaven, that monster! he thy husband, he!
And is it thus thou pitiest me? alas,
What will this poor, this light remorse avail thee,
This fleeting sorrow? was thy tenderness
But for a moment, dost thou threaten me,
[To Iphisa.
Is this, Iphisa, this a mother’s love?
[To Clytemnæstra.
It seems thou threatenest my Orestes too;
Thou hast no cause to fear, nor I to hope
For him: alas! perhaps he is no more;
Perhaps Ægisthus, the detested tyrant,
He whom but now thou didst not blush to call
Thy husband, hath in secret ta’en his life.
IPHISA.
Believe me, Madam, when I call the gods
To witness, poor Electra and myself
Are strangers to the fate of dear Orestes;
Have pity then on your afflicted daughter,
Pity your helpless son and spare Electra:
She has been wronged; her tears and her reproaches
Suit well her fate, and ought to be forgiven.
ELECTRA.
I must not hope it, must not even complain;
And if Orestes lives but in my thoughts
‘Tis deemed a crime. I know Ægisthus well,
Know his fierce nature; if he fears my brother,
He’ll soon destroy him.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Know, thy brother lives;
If he’s in danger, ‘tis from thy imprudence;
Therefore be humble, moderate thy transports,
Respect thy mother: thinkest thou I come here,
Elate with joy, to lead the splendid triumph?
O no, to me it is a day of sorrow;
Thou weepest in chains, and I upon a throne.
I know the cruel vows thy hatred made
Against me: O, Electra! cease thy prayers,
The gods have heard thee but too well already:
Retire, and leave me.
SCENE IV.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
[Alone.
How it shocks my soul
To see my children! O the guilty bed!
My fatal marriage, and long prosperous crimes,
Adultery and murder, horrid bonds!
How ye torment me now! my little dream
Of happiness is o’er, and conscience darts
Its sudden rays on my affrighted soul.
How can Ægisthus live so long in peace!
Fearless he leads me on to share with him
These cruel triumphs; but my spirits fail,
My strength forsakes me, and I tremble now
At every omen; fear my subjects, fear
All Argos, Greece, Electra, and Orestes.
How dreadful ‘tis to hate the blood that flowed
Congenial with our own, to dread the names
Which mortals hold so sacred and so dear!
But injured nature, banished from my heart,
Indignant frowns, and to avenge herself
Now bids me tremble at the name of son.
SCENE V.
ÆGISTHUS, CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Cruel Ægisthus, wherefore wouldst thou lead me
To this sad place, the seat of death and horror?
ÆGISTHUS.
Is then the solemn pomp, the feast of joy,
The sweet remembrance of our prosperous days,
Grown hateful to thee? is our marriage day
A day of horror?
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
No: but here, Ægisthus,
There may be danger: my unhappy children
Have filled this heart with anguish: poor Iphisa
Weeps her hard lot; Electra is in chains;
This fatal place reminds me of the blood
We shed, reminds me of my dear Orestes,
Of Agamemnon.
ÆGISTHUS.
Let Iphisa weep,
And proud Electra rave; I bore too long
Her bitter taunts, ‘tis fit her haughtiness
Should now be humbled; I’ll not suffer her
To stir up foul rebellion in my kingdom,
To tell the factions that Orestes comes,
And call down vengeance on me; every hour
That hated name is echoed in my ear,
I must not bear it.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Ha! what name was that?
Orestes! O, I shudder at the thought
Of his approach: an oracle long since
Declared, that here, even at the fatal tomb
Whither thou leadest, his parricidal hand
Should one day rise vindictive, and destroy us.
Why therefore wouldst thou tempt the gods, why thus
Expose a life so dear to Clytemnæstra?
ÆGISTHUS.
Be not alarmed; Orestes ne’er shall hurt thee:
His be the danger; for I have sent forth
Some friends in search of him, and soon I hope
Shall see him in the toils; a wretched exile
From clime to clime he roams, and now it seems
In Epidaurus’ gloomy forest hides
His ignominious head; but there perhaps
We have more friends than Clytemnæstra thinks of;
The king may serve us.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
But, my son —
ÆGISTHUS.
I know
He’s fierce, implacable, revengeful; stung
By his misfortunes, all the blood of Atreus
Boils in his breast, and animates his rage.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Alas! my lord, his rage is but too just.
ÆGISTHUS.
Be it our business then to make it vain;
Thou knowest I’ve sent my Plisthenes in secret
To Epidaurus.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
But for what?
ÆGISTHUS.
To fix
My throne in safety, and remove thy fears:
Yes, Plisthenes, my son, by thee adopted
Heir to my kingdom, knows too well how much
His interest must depend on the event
E’er to neglect his charge: he is thy son,
Think of no other: had Electra’s heart
Submissive yielded to another’s counsels,
She had been happy in my Plisthenes:
But she shall feel the power which she contemns,
She and her haughty brother, her Orestes,
He may be found perhaps. — You seem disturbed.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Alas! Ægisthus, must we sacrifice
More victims? must I purchase length of days
With added guilt? Thou knowest whose blood we shed —
And must my son too perish, must I pay
So dear a price for life?
ÆGISTHUS.
Remember —
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
No:
First let me ask the sacred oracle —
ÆGISTHUS.
What canst thou hope from gods or oracles,
Were they consulted on the blissful day
That gave Ægisthus to his Clytemnæstra?
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Thou hast recalled a time when heaven, I fear,
Was much offended: love defies the gods,
But fear adores them; guilt weighs down my soul,
Do not oppress my feeble spirits; time,
That changes all, hath altered this proud heart;
The hand of heaven is on me, and subdues
The haughty rage that once inspired my breast;
Not that my tender friendship for Ægisthus
Can e’er decay, our interests are the same;
But to behold my daughter made a slave,
To think on my poor lost abandoned son,
To think that now, even now, perhaps he dies
By vile assassins, or, if living, lives
My foe, and hates the guilty Clytemnæstra,
Is it not dreadful? pity me, Ægisthus,
I am a mother still.
ÆGISTHUS.
Thou art my wife;
Thou art my queen; resume thy wonted courage,
And be thyself again; indulge no more
This foolish fondness for ungrateful children,
Who merit not thy love; consult alone
Ægisthus’ safety, and thy own repose.
CLYTEMNÆSTRA.
Repose! the guilty mind can ne’er enjoy it.
End of the First Act.