THE LIBATION-BEARERS.
89
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?
