Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1896) v2.djvu/243

Rh Woe for the dread resolve, prevailing

From Ilion to draw thee on

To her that waited thee—not hailing

With chaplets!—nor with wreaths arrayed

Wast thou; but with the falchion's blade

She made thee Aegisthus' sport, and won

That treacherous paramour.

Enter Chorus.

Atreides' child, Electra, I have come

Unto thy rustic home.

One from Mycenæ sped this day is here,

A milk-fed mountaineer.

Argos proclaims, saith he, a festival

The third day hence to fall;

And unto Hera's fane must every maid

Pass, in long pomp arrayed.

Friends, not for thought of festal tide,

Nor carcanet's gold-gleaming pride

The pulses of my breast are leaping;

Nor with the brides of Argos keeping

The measure of the dance, my feet

The wreathèd maze's time shall beat:

Nay, but with tears the night I greet,

And wear the woeful day with weeping.

Look on mine hair, its glory shorn,

The disarray of mine attire:

Say, if a princess this beseemeth,