Woe for the dread resolve, prevailing
From Ilion to draw thee on
To her that waited thee—not hailing
With chaplets!—nor with wreaths arrayed
Wast thou; but with the falchion's blade
She made thee Aegisthus' sport, and won
That treacherous paramour.
Enter Chorus.
Chorus.
(Str. 3)
Atreides' child, Electra, I have come
Unto thy rustic home.
One from Mycenæ sped this day is here,
A milk-fed mountaineer. 170
Argos proclaims, saith he, a festival
The third day hence to fall;
And unto Hera's fane must every maid
Pass, in long pomp arrayed.
Electra.
Friends, not for thought of festal tide,
Nor carcanet's gold-gleaming pride
The pulses of my breast are leaping;
Nor with the brides of Argos keeping
The measure of the dance, my feet
The wreathèd maze's time shall beat: 180
Nay, but with tears the night I greet,
And wear the woeful day with weeping.
Look on mine hair, its glory shorn,
The disarray of mine attire:
