CLYTAEMNESTRA. Not unto thee belongs This care. 'Twas we that slew, And we will bury him. Not from his house shall go His mourning train. By the swift-flowing stream Of lamentation his loved child, Iphigenia, shall her father meet, Embrace and fondly kiss. THE CHOEPHOROE Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, has been living beneath the hated domination of Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, the murderer and murderess of her father. Her brother Orestes, the avenger of blood and the hope of her house, has been living in banishment, while she has been looking and longing for his return. At length he returns with his faithful comrade Pylades, and intimates his presence by placing a lock of his hair as his offering on Agamemnon's tomb. Electra announces the discovery to the Chorus of Trojan women, who bear her libation for her to the tomb of her father, and from whom the play is named. * * * * * _ORESTES DISCOVERS HIMSELF TO ELECTRA._ LINES 158-274. ELECTRA. My father's grave has drunk the holy wine; Now lend your ears to the strange news I bring. CHORUS. Speak on, my heart thrills with expectancy. ELECTRA. I found this lock of hair upon the tomb. CHORUS. Who was it, man or maid, that laid it there? ELECTRA. This to divine were not so difficult. CHORUS. Old as I am on thy young lips I hang. ELECTRA. From what head could the lock be cut but mine? CHORUS. They that should offer mourning locks are foes. ELECTRA. This lock of hair is wondrous like in hue. CHORUS. Like to whose hair? 'Tis this I long to learn. ELECTRA. Like, passing like, to hers that speaks to thee. CHORUS. Think'st thou Orestes sent it secretly? ELECTRA. The lock in hue is like no hair but his. CHORUS. But how could he adventure to come here? ELECTRA. Perchance he sent the offering to his sire. CHORUS. This will not staunch the fountain of my woes, If he is ne'er to set foot in our land. 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. ELECTRA.