Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/199

 She or a stranger? Do I wake or dream?

’Tis she; ’tis not—I cannot tell, alack;

It is no other! Now her bright’ning glance

Greets me with recognition, yes, ’tis she,

Herself, Ismene!

Ha! what say ye, child?

That I behold thy daughter and my sister,

And thou wilt know her straightway by her voice.

Enter.

Father and sister, names to me most sweet,

How hardly have I found you, hardly now

When found at last can see you through my tears!

Art come, my child?

O father, sad thy plight!

Child, thou art here?

Yes, ’twas a weary way.

Touch me, my child.

I give a hand to both.

O children—sisters!

O disastrous plight! 177