Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/197

 Slandered me as the murderer of his sire

And breathed forth vengeance?—Neither night nor day

Kind slumber closed these eyes, and immanent dread

Of death each minute stretched me on the rack.

But now on this glad day, of terror rid

From him and her, a deadlier plague than he,

That vampire who was housed with me to drain

My very life blood—now, despite her threats

Methinks that I shall pass my days in peace.

Ah woe is me! now verily may I mourn

Thy fate, Orestes, when thou farest thus,

Mocked by thy mother in death! Is it not well?

Not well with thee, but it is well with him.

Hear her. Avenging Spirit of the dead

Whose ashes still are warm!

The Avenger heard

When it behoved her, and hath ruled it well.

Mock on; this is thine hour of victory.

That hour Orestes shall not end, nor thou.

End it! ’Tis we are ended and undone.

Thy coming. Sir, would merit large reward,

If thou indeed hast stopped her wagging tongue.

Then I may take my leave, if all is well. 185