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Chrysothemis
That nothing of them where our father rests
May ever come, but lie a precious store
For her when dead, and in the realms below..
For were not she, of all her sex, most lost lo
To shame, this hateful globlet to the manort I
Her own hands murder'd never had she crownd.
For canst thou think the dead within his tomb,
His indignation soften'd, will, receiver
These offerings from the hand by which he died
Dishonour'd, mangled with relentless hate,(
Amidst th' ablutions all the stains of bloodT
420
Wiped on his head And canst thou think these things
420
Will make atonement for the murderous deed?
420
It may not be; then think of them no more.
But cut thou off thy fair and crisped, curls,
And from my wretched head (small gift indeed,
But all I have to give) these squalid locks;
Lo With them present my zone, not richly wrought
With bright embroidery: bow before the tomb,
And pour thy prayers that from beneath the earth
Propitious he would come, against our foes
A strong protector; that with potent hand
His son, Orestes, may return, and live,
And trample those, that hate him, in the dust :
Then will we crown his tomb with richer gifts
Than now we can present. These things I think,
Yes, I will think he makes these things his care,
425
And therefore with these dreams appals her soul.
425
Do thou, my sister, in this hope perform
425
That nothing of them where our father rests
May ever come, but lie a precious store
For her when dead, and in the realms below..
For were not she, of all her sex, most lost lo
To shame, this hateful globlet to the manort I
Her own hands murder'd never had she crownd.
For canst thou think the dead within his tomb,
His indignation soften'd, will, receiver
These offerings from the hand by which he died
Dishonour'd, mangled with relentless hate,(
Amidst th' ablutions all the stains of bloodT
420
Wiped on his head And canst thou think these things
420
Will make atonement for the murderous deed?
420
It may not be; then think of them no more.
But cut thou off thy fair and crisped, curls,
And from my wretched head (small gift indeed,
But all I have to give) these squalid locks;
Lo With them present my zone, not richly wrought
With bright embroidery: bow before the tomb,
And pour thy prayers that from beneath the earth
Propitious he would come, against our foes
A strong protector; that with potent hand
His son, Orestes, may return, and live,
And trample those, that hate him, in the dust :
Then will we crown his tomb with richer gifts
Than now we can present. These things I think,
Yes, I will think he makes these things his care,
425
And therefore with these dreams appals her soul.
425
Do thou, my sister, in this hope perform
425
Electra. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.