Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/205



Yea, in a strange land far away—

Alas!

To lie untended by my hands,

Unwept, ungraced with sepulture by me!

Enter.

Joy, dearest sister, sped me hitherward,

And haply with unseemly haste I ran

To bring the joyful tidings and relief

From all thy woes and weary sufferings.

And where canst thou have found a remedy

For irremediable woes like mine?

Orestes—hear it from my lips—is here,

In bodily presence, as thou see’st me now.

Art mad, poor sister, making mockery

Of thine own misery and mine withal?

I mock not, by our father’s hearth I swear it;

In very truth we have him here again.

O misery! And, prithee, from whose mouth

Hadst thou this tale so blindly credited?

I trusted to none other than myself,

The clearest proof and evidence of my eyes. 193