Pity thy progeny of either sex,
Nor Pelops' remnant seed exterminate;
For thus, though dying here, thou art not dead.
For children are as voices that prolong
The dead man's fame; like corks they float the net,
The flaxen line upbearing from the deep.
Hearken! For thine own sake this wail we raise; 500
Thyself art saved in honouring this plaint.
Chorus.
Unblamed in sooth have ye your speech prolonged,
Due to his tomb and unlamented fate.
But since to action now thy soul is braced,
To work forthwith! Put Fortune to the test.
Orestes.
So be it! yet not out of course I ask
What mean these off'rings? By what motive swayed,
Seeks she too late to med'cine cureless bale?
For to the dead, who heeds it not, she sends
A sorry tribute;—I divine it not!
Her crime o'er tops the gift;—for should we pour 510
Earth's treasures to atone for one man's blood,
Vain were the toil;—so runs the ancient saw.
But if thou knowest answer to my prayer.
Chorus.
That can I, son, for I was there;—by dreams,
And troublous terrors of the night appalled,
The godless woman sent these sacred rites.
Orestes.
Heard ye the dream, and truly can rehearse?
