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Ah, not for thee alone

Of mortal race hath come the taste of woes.

What cause hast thou above those twain to moan,

In whom the self-same blood of kindred flows,

Iphianassa and Chrysothemis?

And one in youth obscure and sad doth live,

Yet blest, at least, in this,

That unto him Mykenæ famed shall give

Its welcome as the son of noble sire,

Beneath the care of Zeus' almighty hand,

Returning once again, Orestes, to our land.

Yes, he it is for whom I waste away,

Wailing for him, in vain, unweariedly;

And in my sorrow know no bridal day,

But weep sad tears from eyelids never dry,

Bearing my endless weight

Of dark and dreary fate:

And he remembers not

All that I did for him, and all he knew.

What message comes, yea, what,

That is not cheated of fulfilment true?

He yearneth still for home;

Yet yearning will not come.

Take heart, my child, take heart;

Still mighty in the heavens Zeus doth reign,

Who sees the whole world, rules its every part: