Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/321

Rh Of whom thou oft did'st send word secretly

That thou would'st come and one day show thyself

A true avenger. But thine evil fate,

Thine and mine also, hath bereaved me of thee,

And now hath sent, instead of that dear form,

This dust, this shadow, vain and profitless.

Woe, woe is me!

Ο piteous, piteous corpse!

Thou dearest, who did'st tread

(Woe, woe is me!)

Paths full of dread and fear,

How hast thou brought me low,

Yea, brought me very low, thou dearest one!

Therefore receive thou me to this thine home,

Ashes to ashes, that with thee below

I may from henceforth dwell. When thou wast here

I shared with thee an equal lot, and now

I crave in dying not to miss thy tomb;

For those that die I see are freed of grief,

Chor. Thou, Ο Electra, take good heed, wast born

Of mortal father, mortal, too, Orestes;

Yield not too much to grief. To suffer thus

Is common lot of all.

Ores. [Trembling.] Ah, woe is me!

What shall I say? Ah, whither find my way

In words confused? I fail to rule my speech.

Elec. What grief disturbs thee? Wherefore speak'st thou thus?

Ores. Is this Electra's noble form I see?

Elec. That self-same form, and sad enough its state.

Ores. Alas, alas, for this sad lot of thine!

Elec. Surely thou dost not wail, Ο friend, for me?

Ores. Ο form most basely, godlessly misused!

Elec. Thy words ill-omened fall on none but me.