With the hell-hounds' wings on his track swift-sweeping,

With eyes wild-rolling in terror unsleeping—
⁠Agamemnon's scion, a matricide banned!
Ah wretch, that his heart should fail not nor falter,
⁠When, over her vesture's broideries golden,⁠840
⁠The mother's breast of his eyes was beholden!
But he slaughtered her like to a beast at the altar,
⁠For the wrongs of a father had whetted the brand.

Enter Electra.

Dames, sure woe-worn Orestes hath not fled
These halls o'erborne by madness heaven-sent?⁠845

Nay, nay, to Argos' people hath he gone
To stand the appointed trial for his life,
Whereon your doom rests, or to live or die.

Ah me! what hath he done? Who wrought on him
[To go where foes shall mock his misery?]^[1]

Pylades. Lo, yon messenger draws nigh⁠850
To tell, meseems, how fared thy brother there.

Enter Messenger.

Child of our war-chief, hapless, woe-worn one,
Agamemnon's daughter, lady Electra, hear
The woeful tale, wherewith I come to thee.