For not an enemy—this petition shows it—
But of his friends or kindred, is this maid.
[The urn is given into Electra’s hands
El. O monument of him whom o’er all else
I loved! sole relic of Orestes’ life,
How cold in this thy welcome is the hope
Wherein I decked thee as I sent thee forth!
Then bright was thy departure, whom I now
Bear lightly, a mere nothing, in my hands.
Would I had gone from life, ere I dispatched
Thee from my arms that saved thee to a land
Of strangers, stealing thee from death! For then
Thou hadst been quiet on that far-off day,
And had thy portion in our father’s tomb.
Now thou hast perished in the stranger land
Far from thy sister, lorn and comfortless.
And I, O wretchedness! neither have bathed
And laid thee forth, nor from the blazing fire
Collected the sad burden, as was meet:
But thou, when foreign hands have tended thee,
Com’st a small handful in a narrow shell.
Woe for the constant care I spent on thee
Of old all vainly, with sweet toil! For never
Wast thou thy mother’s darling, nay, but mine,
And I of all the household most thy nurse,
While ‘sister, sister,’ was thy voice to me.
But now all this is vanished in one day,
Dying in thy death. Thou hast carried all away
As with a whirlwind, and art gone. No more
My father lives: thyself art lost in death:
I am dead, who lived in thee. Our enemies
Laugh loudly and she maddens in her joy,
Our mother most unmotherly, of whom
Thy secret missives oft times told me, thou
Wouldst be the punisher. But that fair hope
The hapless Genius of thy lot and mine
Hath reft away, and gives thee thus to me,—
For thy loved form thy dust and fruitless shade.
O bitterness! O piteous sight! Woe! woe!
Oh! sent on thy dire journey, dearest one,
