Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/171



There is but little that I have to tell.

Tell it no less. A little word, men say,

Hath oftentimes determined weal or woe.

’Tis said that she beheld thy sire and mine

In bodily presence standing by her side,

Revisiting the light of day. He took

The sceptre of Aegisthus, once his own,

And at the household altar planted it,

And from it sprang and spread a fruitful bough,

Till it o’ershadowed all Mycenae’s land.

Such is the tale one told me who was by

When to the Sun-god she declared her dream.

Further I know not, save that in alarm

She sent me hither. Hearken then to me.

Sister, I pray thee by our household gods,

Fall not through folly; if thou spurn me now

Too late in sorrow wilt thou seek my aid.

Nay, let not aught, my sister, touch the tomb,

Of all thou bearest. ’Twere a shame, a sin,

To offer on behalf of her, the accursed,

Gifts or libations to our father’s ghost.

Scatter them to the winds or bury them

Deep in the dust, where nothing may defile

Our father’s lone couch; let her find them there,

A buried treasure when she comes to die.

Were she not abjectest of womankind,

She ne’er had thought with offerings of hate 159