Who like Ares bend until it quiver,
Bend the northern bow?
Who with hand upon the hilt himself will thrust with glaive,
Thrust and slay and save?
Lo! the earth drinks them, to my sire they pass- She notices the
locks of ORESTES. Learn ye with me of this thing new and strange.
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
Speak thou; my breast doth palpitate with fear.
I see upon the tomb a curl new shorn.
Shorn from wnat man or what deep-girded maid?
That may he, guess who will; the sign is plain.
Let me learn this of thee; let youth prompt age.
None is there here but I, to clip such gift.
For they who thus should mourn him hate him sore.
And lo! in truth the hair exceeding like-
Like to what locks and whose? instruct me that.
Like unto those my father's children wear.
Then is this lock Orestes' secret gift?
Most like it is unto the curls he wore.
Yet how dared he to come unto his home?
He hath but sent it, clipt to mourn his sire.
It is a sorrow grievous as his death,
That he should live yet never dare return.
Yea, and my heart o'erflows with gall of grief,
And I am pierced as with a cleaving dart;
Like to the first drops after drought, my tears
Fall down at will, a bitter bursting tide,
As on this lock I gaze; I cannot deem
That any Argive save Orestes' self
Was ever lord thereof; nor, well I wot,
Hath she, the murd'ress, shorn and laid this lock
To mourn him whom she slew-my mother she,
Bearing no mother's heart, but to her race
A loathing spirit, loathed itself of heaven!
Yet to affirm, as utterly made sure,