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ELECTRA TENDING THE SICK-COUCH OF ORESTES.
CHORUS.
He seemed to sleep.

ELECTRA.
Troubler of his rest! AwBegone, I say,
Troubler of his rest! Away!———

CHORUS.
He now sleeps well.

ELECTRA.
He now sleeps well. Thou sayest right.

CHORUS.
Holy and awful Night,
Giver of sleep, on whom the labour-laden call,
Hither from the depths of Erebus
Come, on thy shadowy wings, to us,
To the Agamemnonian Hall!
For beneath our wretchedness,
And our manifold distress,
We perish, we utterly perish.

ELECTRA.
Again ye 've roused him.

CHORUS.
His repose. Each soundNay.

ELECTRA.
His repose. Each sound repOh cherish
His repose. Each sound repress,
And in silence watching by,
Let him slumber peacefully.

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