Page:Electra of Euripides (Murray 1913).djvu/28

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Is it meet for the King my sire,

And her whom the King begot?

For Troy, that was burned with fire

And forgetteth not?

Hera is great!—Ah, come,

Be kind; and my hand shall bring

Fair raiment, work of the loom,

And many a golden thing,

For joyous robe-wearing.

Deemest thou this thy woe

Shall rise unto God as prayer,

Or bend thine haters low?

Doth God for thy pain have care?

Not tears for the dead nor sighs,

But worship and joy divine

Shall win thee peace in thy skies,

O daughter mine!

No care cometh to God

For the voice of the helpless; none

For the crying of ancient blood.

Alas for him that is gone,

And for thee, O wandering one:

That now, methinks, in a land

Of the stranger must toil for hire,

And stand where the poor men stand,

A-cold by another's fire,

O son of the mighty sire: