Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/173

 To crown her murdered victim’s sepulchre.

Thinkst thou ’tis likely that her buried lord

Will take these honours kindly at her hands

Who slew him without pity like a foe,

Mangled his corse, and for ablution washed

The bloodstains on his head? Say, is it like

These gifts will purge her of blood-guiltiness?

It cannot be. Fling them away and cut

A tress of thine own locks; and for my share

Give him from me—a poor thing, but my best—

This unkempt lock, this girdle unadorned.

Then fall upon thy knees and pray that he

May come, our gracious champion from the dead,

And that the young Orestes yet may live

To trample underfoot his vanquished foes.

So may we some day crown our father’s tomb

With costlier gifts than these poor offerings.

I can but think, ’tis but a thought, that he

Had part in sending her this ominous dream.

Still, sister, do this service and so aid

Thyself and me, and him the most beloved

Of all men, e’en though dead, thy sire and mine.

’Tis piously advised, and thou, my daughter,

Wilt do her bidding, if thou art discreet.

I will. When duty calls, ’twere lack of sense

For two to wrangle; both should join to act.

161