Not by a stranger's, but by kindred hand,
Shall be chased forth the blood-fiend of our land.
Be this our spoken spell, to call Earth's nether powers!
Lords of a dark eternity,
To you has come the children's cry,
Send up from hell, fulfil your aid
To them who prayed.
The chant is concluded.
O father, murdered in unkingly wise,
Fulfil my prayer, grant me thine halls to sway.
To me, too, grant this boon-dark death to deal
Unto Aegisthus, and to 'scape my doom.
So shall the rightful feasts that mortals pay
Be set for thee; else, not for thee shall rise
The scented reek of altars fed with flesh,
But thou shalt lie dishonoured: hear thou me!
I too, from my full heritage restored,
Will pour the lustral streams, what time I pass
Forth as a bride from these paternal halls,
And honour first, beyond all graves, thy tomb.
Earth, send my sire to fend me in the fight!
Give fair-faced fortune, O Persephone!
Bethink thee, father, in the laver slain-
Bethink thee of the net they handselled for thee!
Bonds not of brass ensnared thee, father mine.
Yea, the ill craft of an enfolding robe.
By this our bitter speech arise, O sire!
Raise thou thine head at love's last, dearest call!
Yea, speed forth Right to aid thy kinsmen's cause;
Grip for grip, let them grasp the foe, if thou
Willest in triumph to forget thy fall.
Hear me, O father, once again hear me.
Lo! at thy tomb, two fledglings of thy brood-
A man-child and a maid; hold them in ruth,
Nor wipe them out, the last of Pelops' line.
For while they live, thou livest from the dead;
Children are memory's voices, and preserve
The dead from wholly dying: as a net
Is ever by the buoyant corks upheld,