Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/151

 Think on thy kinsfolk whom afflictions press

Than thine no less,

Iphianassa and Chrysothemis.

Think of thy brother; sorrow now is his,

An exiled youth, yet shortly shall he come

By heaven’s good guidance home,

And glad Mycenae shall Orestes own

Heir to his father’s throne.

Yea, for him long years I wait,

Unwed, childless, desolate,

Drenched with tears that ever flow

For my barren load of woe;

And the wrongs whereof he wot,

Or hath heard, are all forgot.

All those messages are vain—

How he hopes to come again,

How for home his heart doth yearn!—

Yet he wills not to return.

Take heart, my child, Zeus still in heaven is king,

And orders everything;

To him commit the wrath that gnaws thy breast,

His will is ever best.

Nurse, as is meet, thy vengeance, but abate

Excess of hate,

For Time can heal, a gentle god and mild.

Nor Agamemnon’s child

Who long by Crisa’s pastoral shore remains,

Nor he who reigns

O’er Acheron will nevermore relent.

Nay but for me is spent

The best of life; I languish in despair. 139