Be rent, O hair of mine head!

As a swan crying alone
  Where the river windeth cold,
For a loved, for a silent one,
  Whom the toils of the fowler hold,
I cry, Father, to thee,
O slain in misery!

The water, the wan water, [Antistrophe 2. 
  Lapped him, and his head
Drooped in the bed of slaughter
  Low, as one wearied;
Woe for the edged axe,
  And woe for the heart of hate,
Houndlike about thy tracks,
  O conqueror desolate,
From Troy over land and sea,
Till a wife stood waiting thee;
Not with crowns did she stand,
Nor flowers of peace in her hand;
With Aegisthus’ dagger drawn
  For her hire she strove,
Through shame and through blood alone;
  And won her a traitor’s love.

[As she ceases there enter from right and left the CHORUS, consisting of women of Argos, young and old, in festal dress.

  CHORUS.

  Some Women.

Child of the mighty dead, [Strophe. 
  Electra, lo, my way
To thee in the dawn hath sped,
  And the cot on the mountain grey,
  For the Watcher hath cried this day: 
He of the ancient folk,
  The walker of waste and hill,
Who drinketh the milk of the flock;
  And he told of Hera’s will;
For the morrow’s morrow now
  They cry her festival,
And before her throne shall bow
  Our damsels all.

ELECTRA.

Not unto joy, nor sweet
  Music, nor shining of gold,
The wings of my spirit beat. 
  Let the brides of Argos hold
  Their dance in the night, as of old;
I lead no dance; I mark
  No beat as the dancers sway;
With tears I dwell in the dark,
  And my thought is of tears alway,
  To the going down of the day. 
Look on my wasted hair
And raiment....  This that I bear,
Is it meet for the King my sire,
  And her whom the King begot? 
For Troy, that was burned with fire
    And forgetteth not?

  CHORUS.

  Other Women.

Hera is great!—­Ah, come, [Antistrophe. 
  Be kind; and my hand shall bring
Fair raiment, work of the loom,
  And many a golden thing,
  For joyous robe-wearing. 
Deemest thou this thy woe
  Shall rise unto God as prayer,
Or bend thine haters low? 
  Doth God for thy pain have care? 
Not tears for the dead nor sighs,
  But worship and joy divine
Shall win thee peace in thy skies,
  O daughter mine!

ELECTRA.

No care cometh to God
  For the voice of the helpless; none
For the crying of ancient blood. 
  Alas for him that is gone,
  And for thee, O wandering one: 
That now, methinks, in a land
  Of the stranger must toil for hire,
And stand where the poor men stand,
  A-cold by another’s fire,
  O son of the mighty sire: 
While I in a beggar’s cot
On the wrecked hills, changing not,
Starve in my soul for food;
  But our mother lieth wed
In another’s arms, and blood
    Is about her bed.