One boon in dying.—“Oh! if e’er to thee,”
She cried—“this fading form, these locks were dear,
And the soft cares of love—since destiny
Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least
That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!”
She prayed and died. Then shook the Thunderer’s throne,
And bending in assent, the immortal head
Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks
To sanctify her tomb.—Ericthon there
Reposes; there the dust of Ilus lies.