_Clytæm._ It is not thine to speak;
'Twas at our hands he fell,
Yea, he fell low in death,
And we will bury him, 1530
Not with the bitter tears of those who weep
As inmates of the house;
But she, his child, Iphigeneia, there
Shall meet her father, and with greeting kind,
E'en as is fit, by that swift-flowing ford,
Dark stream of bitter woes,
Shall clasp him in her arms,
And give a daughter's kiss.