And whatever he may undertake; He is the arm of the youth in battle, The light-giving eye of the aged man in the council. For his soul is still; it preserves The holy possession of Repose unexhausted, And from its depths still reaches Help and advice to those tossed to and fro. 

Iphigenia leaves him in sudden agitation, when informed of the death of Agamemnon. Returning, she finds in his place Orestes, whom she had not before seen, and draws from him by her artless questions the sequel to this terrible drama wrought by his hand. After he has concluded his narrative, in the deep tones of cold anguish, she cries,—

 Immortals, you who through your bright days Live in bliss, throned on clouds ever renewed, Only for this have you all these years Kept me separate from men, and so near yourselves, Given me the child-like employment to cherish the fires on your altars, That my soul might, in like pious clearness, Be ever aspiring towards your abodes, That only later and deeper I might feel The anguish and horror that have darkened my house. O Stranger, Speak to me of the unhappy one, tell me of Orestes. Orestes. O, might I speak of his death! Vehement flew up from the reeking blood His Mother's Soul! And called to the ancient daughters of Night, Let not the parricide escape; Pursue that man of crime; he is yours! They obey, their hollow eyes Darting about with vulture eagerness; They stir themselves in their black dens, From corners their companions Doubt and Remorse steal out to join them. Before them roll the mists of Acheron; In its cloudy volumes rolls The eternal contemplation of the irrevocable Permitted now in their love of ruin they tread The beautiful fields of a God-planted earth, From which they had long been banished by an early curse, Their swift feet follow the fugitive, They pause never except to gather more power to dismay. Iphigenia. Unhappy man, thou art in like manner tortured, And feelest truly what he, the poor fugitive, suffers! Orestes. What sayest thou? what meanest by "like manner"? Iphigenia. Thee, too, the weight of a fratricide crushes to earth; the tale I had from thy younger brother. Orestes. I cannot suffer that thou, great soul, Shouldst be deceived by a false tale; A web of lies let stranger weave for stranger Subtle with many thoughts, accustomed to craft, Guarding his feet against a trap. But between us Be Truth;— I am Orestes,—and this guilty head Bent downward to the grave seeks death; In any shape were he welcome. Whoever thou art, I wish thou mightst be saved, Thou and my friend; for myself I wish it not. Thou seem'st against thy will here to remain; Invent a way to fly and leave me here. 

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