ELECTRA.
Not less through me a tide of passion rolled,
And as it were an arrow pierced my breast,
While from my eyes coursed down my thirsty cheeks
The gushing tears, till sorrow's fount was dry,
As on this lock I looked. No citizen
Of ours could own it saving one alone;
Nor was it shred by her the murderess
That but usurps a mother's hallowed name,
To us, her children, so unmotherly.
Surely to say what I would fain believe,
That this fair offering from Orestes comes
Dearest of men, I dare not, yet I hope.
Oh, would it had a voice to speak to me,
And so to end distraction in my soul;
That I might cast it scornfully away,
If it were taken from a hated head.
If from a head I love, that it might pay
With me sad homage to my father's tomb.
CHORUS.
The heavenly powers on whom we call well know
With what a sea, like storm-tossed mariners,
We battle; yet, if destiny be kind,
From a small seed a mighty tree may spring.