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Beseemeth it to ask such boon of heaven?

How not, to wreak a wrong upon a foe?

O mighty Hermes, warder of the shades,

Herald of upper and of under world,

Proclaim and usher down my prayer's appeal

Unto the gods below, that they with eyes

Watchful behold these halls, my sire's of old—

And unto Earth, the mother of all things,

And foster-nurse, and womb that takes their seed.

Lo, I that pour these draughts for men now dead,

Call on my father, who yet holds in ruth

Me and mine own Orestes, Father, speak—

How shall thy children rule thine halls again?

Homeless we are and sold; and she who sold

Is she who bore us; and the price she took

Is he who joined with her to work thy death,

''Ægisthus, her new lord. Behold me here''

Brought down to slave's estate, and far away

Wanders Orestes, banished from the wealth

That once was thine, the profit of thy care,

Whereon these revel in a shameful joy.

Father, my prayer is said; 'tis thine to hear—

Grant that some fair fate bring Orestes home,

And unto me grant these—a purer soul

Than is my mother's, a more stainless hand.

These be my prayers for us; for thee, O sire,