Destiny doth Justice whetFor other deed of hurt, on other whetstones yet. Woe, earth, earth — would thou hadst taken meEre I saw the man I see,On the pallet-bedOf the silver-sided bath-vase, dead!Who is it shall bury him, whoSing his dirge? Can it be trueThat thou wilt dare this same to do —Having slain thy husband, thine own,To make his funeral moan:And for the soul of him, in placeOf his mighty deeds, a graceless graceTo wickedly institute? By whomShall the tale of praise o’er the tombAt the god-like man be sent —From the truth of his mind as he toils intent? KLUTAIMNESTRA.It belongs not to thee to declareThis object of care!By us did he fall — down there!Did he die — down there! and down, no less,We will bury him there, and not beneathThe wails of the household over his death:But Iphigeneia, — with kindliness, —His daughter, — as the case requires,Facing him full, at the rapid-flowingPassage of Groans shall — both hands throwingAround him — kiss that kindest of sires! CHOROS.This blame comes in the place of blame:Hard battle it is to judge each claim.