Hermes of the nether world, you who guard the powers that are your father’s, Hermes is invoked (1) as a god of the lower world, because he is the conducter of souls and herald between the celestial and infernal gods (l. 124), and can thus convey Orestes’ appeal to the rulers of the dead and to the spirit of his father; (2) as administrator of the powers committed to him by his father, Zeus the Saviour. Some prefer to take πατρῷ not as πατρῷα but as πατρῷε i.e. god of my fathers. prove yourself my savior and ally, I entreat you, now that I have come to this land and returned from exile. On this mounded grave I cry out to my father to hearken, to hear me 
 Look, I bring a lock to Inachus Orestes offers a lock of his hair to do honour to Inachus, the river-god of Argos , because rivers were worshipped as givers of life. in requital for his care, and here, a second, in token of my grief.
 For I was not present, father, to lament your death, nor did I stretch forth my hand to bear your corpse. What is this I see? What is this throng of women that moves in state, marked by their sable cloaks? To what calamity should I set this down? Is it some new sorrow that befalls our house? Or am I right to suppose that for my father’s sake they bear these libations to appease the powers below? It can only be for this cause: for indeed I think my own sister Electra is approaching, distinguished by her bitter grief. Oh grant me, Zeus, to avenge my father’s death, and may you be my willing ally! Pylades, let us stand apart,that I may know clearly what this band of suppliant women intends. Exit Orestes and Pylades. Enter Electra with women carrying libations. Chorus Sent forth from the palace I have come to convey libations to the sound of sharp blows of my hands. My cheek is marked with bloody gashes where my nails have cut fresh furrows. And yet through all my life my heart is fed with lamentation. Rips are torn by my griefs through the linen web of my garment, torn in the cloth that covers my breast, the cloth of robes struck for the sake of my mirthless misfortunes. Chorus For with a hair-raising shriek, Terror, the diviner of dreams for our house, breathing wrath out of sleep, uttered a cry of terror in the dead of night from the heart of the palace, a cry that fell heavily on the women’s quarter. The language of the passage is accommodated to a double purpose: (1) to indicate an oracular deliverance on the part of the inspired prophetess at Delphi , and (2) to show the alarming nature of Clytaemestra’s dream: while certain limiting expressions (as ἀωπόνυκτον, ὕπτου ) show the points of difference. Phoebus is used for a prophetic possession, which assails Clytaemestra as a nightmare (cp. βαρὺς πίτνων ); so that her vision is itself called an ὀνειρόμαντις. 
 And the readers of these dreams, bound under pledge, cried out from the god that those beneath the earth cast furious reproaches and rage against their murderers.
 Chorus Intending to ward off evil with such a graceless grace, O mother Earth, she sends me forth, godless woman that she is. But I am afraid to utter the words she charged me to speak. For what atonement is there for blood fallen to earth? Ah, hearth of utter grief! Ah, house laid low in ruin! Sunless darkness, loathed by men, enshrouds our house due to the death of its master.
 The awe of majesty once unconquered, unvanquished, irresistible in war, that penetrated the ears and heart of the people, is now cast off. But there is still fear. And prosperity—this, among mortals, is a god and more than a god. But the balance of Justice keeps watch: swiftly it descends on those in the light; sometimes pain waits for those who linger on the frontier of twilight; and others are claimed by strengthless night. Chorus Because of blood drunk up by the fostering earth, the vengeful gore lies clotted and will not dissolve away. Soul-racking calamity distracts the guilty man till he is steeped in utter misery. But for the violator of a bridal chamber there is no cure. And though all streams flow in one course to cleanse the blood from a polluted hand, they rush in vain. Chorus For since the gods laid constraining doom about my city and led me from my father’s house to a slave’s lot, it is fitting for me to govern my bitter hate, even against my will, and submit to the wishes of my masters, whether just or unjust. But I weep beneath my veil over the senseless fate of my lord, my heart chilled by secret grief.
 Electra You handmaidens who set our house in order, since you are here as my attendants in this rite of supplication, give me your counsel on this: what should I say while I pour these offerings of sorrow? How shall I find gracious words, how shall I entreat my father? Shall I say that I bring these offerings to a loved husband from a loving wife—from my own mother? I do not have the assurance for that, nor do I know what I should say as I pour this libation onto my father’s tomb. Or shall I speak the words that men are accustomed to use: To those who send these honors may he return benefits — a gift, indeed, to match their evil? Their evil is unexpectedly substituted for their good. The question is ironical, since it was natural for a Greek to return evil for evil (cp. 123). 
 Or, in silence and dishonor, even as my father perished, shall I pour them out for the earth to drink and then retrace my steps, like one who carries refuse away from a rite, hurling the vessel from me with averted eyes? In this, my friends, be my fellow-counsellors. For we cherish a common hatred within our house. Do not hide your counsel in your hearts in fear of anyone. For the portion of fate awaits both the free man and the man enslaved by another’s hand. If you have a better course to urge, speak! Chorus In reverence for your father’s tomb, as if it were an altar, I will speak my thoughts from the heart, since you command me.
 Electra Speak, even as you revere my father’s grave.