View:
By Card
EL
431
Now, dear Chrysothemis, of what thou bearest
Let nothing touch his tomb. ’Tis impious
And criminal to offer to thy sire
Rites and libations from a hateful wife.
Then cast them to the winds, or deep in dust
Conceal them, where no particle may reach
His resting-place: but lie in store for her
When she goes underground. Sure, were she not
Most hardened of all women that have been,
She ne’er had sent those loveless offerings
To grace the sepulchre of him she slew.
For think how likely is the buried king
To take such present kindly from her hand,
Who slew him like an alien enemy,
Dishonoured even in death, and mangled him,
435
And wiped the death-stain with his flowing locks—
435
Sinful purgation! Think you that you bear
435
In those cold gifts atonement for her guilt?
It is not possible. Wherefore let be.
But take a ringlet from thy comely head,
And this from mine, that lingers on my brow
Longing to shade his tomb. Ah, give it to him,
All I can give, and this my maiden-zone,
Not daintily adorned, as once erewhile.
Then, humbly kneeling, pray that from the ground
He would arise to help us ’gainst his foes,
And grant his son Orestes with high hand
Strongly to trample on his enemies;
That in our time to come from ampler stores
We may endow him, than are ours to-day.
I cannot but imagine that his will
440
Hath part in visiting her sleep with fears.
440
But howsoe’er, I pray thee, sister mine,
440
Do me this service, and thyself, and him,
Dearest of all the world to me and thee,
The father of us both, who rests below.
Now, dear Chrysothemis, of what thou bearest
Let nothing touch his tomb. ’Tis impious
And criminal to offer to thy sire
Rites and libations from a hateful wife.
Then cast them to the winds, or deep in dust
Conceal them, where no particle may reach
His resting-place: but lie in store for her
When she goes underground. Sure, were she not
Most hardened of all women that have been,
She ne’er had sent those loveless offerings
To grace the sepulchre of him she slew.
For think how likely is the buried king
To take such present kindly from her hand,
Who slew him like an alien enemy,
Dishonoured even in death, and mangled him,
435
And wiped the death-stain with his flowing locks—
435
Sinful purgation! Think you that you bear
435
In those cold gifts atonement for her guilt?
It is not possible. Wherefore let be.
But take a ringlet from thy comely head,
And this from mine, that lingers on my brow
Longing to shade his tomb. Ah, give it to him,
All I can give, and this my maiden-zone,
Not daintily adorned, as once erewhile.
Then, humbly kneeling, pray that from the ground
He would arise to help us ’gainst his foes,
And grant his son Orestes with high hand
Strongly to trample on his enemies;
That in our time to come from ampler stores
We may endow him, than are ours to-day.
I cannot but imagine that his will
440
Hath part in visiting her sleep with fears.
440
But howsoe’er, I pray thee, sister mine,
440
Do me this service, and thyself, and him,
Dearest of all the world to me and thee,
The father of us both, who rests below.
Electra. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.