Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/160

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In sooth I find it greatly like mine own.

Then should it be Orestes' stealthy gift?

The semblance of his clust'ring locks it bears.

But hither how could he have dared to come?

He this shorn lock hath sent to grace his sire.

Not less bewept by me what now thou sayest,

If, living, he may never tread this land.

Rolls o'er my heart a surge of bitterness,

Smitten am I as with a piercing shaft;

And from these eyes, while gazing on this lock,

The thirsty drops of sorrow's wintry flood

Flow unrestrained. For how may I conceive

That other of the townsmen owns this hair?

And certes, she who slew him sheared it not,

My mother,—all unworthy of the name,

Who towards her children bears a godless mind.

Yet how with full assurance may I call

This off'ring his, dearest of mortal men,