CHORUS Woe, woe, woe! Let the teardrop fall, plashing on the ground Where our lord lies low: Fall and cleanse away the cursed libation’s stain, Shed on this grave-mound, Fenced wherein together, gifts of good or bane From the dead are found. Lord of Argos, hearken! Though around thee darken Mist of death and hell, arise and hear! Hearken and awaken to our cry of woe! Who with might of spear Shall our home deliver? 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? ELECTRA Lo! the earth drinks them, to my sire they pass— Learn ye with me of this thing new and strange. CHORUS Speak thou; my breast doth palpitate with fear. ELECTRA I see upon the tomb a curl new shorn. CHORUS Shorn from what man or what deep-girded maid? ELECTRA That may he guess who will; the sign is plain. CHORUS Let me learn this of thee; let youth prompt age. ELECTRA None is there here but I, to clip such gift. CHORUS For they who thus should mourn him hate him sore. ELECTRA And lo! in truth the hair exceeding like— CHORUS Like to what locks and whose? instruct me that. ELECTRA Like unto those my father’s children wear. CHORUS Then is this lock Orestes’ secret gift? ELECTRA Most like it is unto the curls he wore, CHORUS Yet how dared he to come unto his home? ELECTRA He hath but sent it, clipt to mourn his sire. CHORUS It is a sorrow grievous as his death, That he should live yet never dare return.