I come. Thy tidings?—what
Thy care? Why hast thou brought
Me to the shrines, O child of him who led
That fleet, the thousand-keeled,
That host of myriad shield140
That Troyward with the glorious Atreïds sped?
Iphigeneia.
Ah maidens, sunken deep
In mourning's dole I weep:
My wails no measure keep
With aught glad-ringing
From harps: nor Song-queens' strain
Breathes o'er the sad refrain
Of my bereavement's pain,
Nepenthe-bringing.
The curse upon mine head
Is come—a brother dead!150
Ah vision-dream that fled
To Night's hand clinging!
Undone am I—undone!
My race—its course is run:
My sire's house—there is none:
Woe, Argos' nation!
Ah, cruel Fate, that tore
From me my love, and bore
To Hades! Dear, I pour
Thy death-libation —160
Fountains of mountain-kine,
The brown bees' toil, the wine,
Shed on earth's breast, are thine,
