EL
One utterly bereft,
Seeing no hope is left,
Of help from hands owning the same great sire.
’Tis nature’s debt.
To expire
On sharp-cut dragging thongs,
’Midst wildly trampling throngs
Of swiftly racing hoofs, like him,
Poor hapless one?
870
Vast, dim,
870
And boundless was the harm.
870
Yea, severed from mine arm,
870
By strangers kept—
870
O pain!
870
Hidden he must remain,
870
Of me unsepulchred, unmourned, unwept.
870
Electra. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.