My father’s tomb, my father I invoke,
To hear my cry!
* * * * * *
* * My early growth of hair
To Inachus I vowed;[n2] this later lock
The right of grief for my great sire demands.
* * * * * *
But what is this? what sad procession comes
Of marshalled maids in sable mantles clad?
What mission brings them? Some new woe that breaks