Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/116

86 And all is terror to me; in mine ears

There sounds a cry, but not of triumph now—

So am I scared at heart by woe so great.

Therefore I wend forth from the house anew,

Borne in no car of state, nor robed in pride

As heretofore, but bringing, for the sire

Who did beget my son, libations meet

For holy rites that shall appease the dead—

The sweet white milk, drawn from a spotless cow,

The oozing drop of golden honey, culled

By the flower-haunting bee, and therewithal

Pure draughts of water from a virgin spring;

And lo! besides, the stainless effluence,

Born of the wild vine's bosom, shining store

Treasured to age, this bright and luscious wine.

And eke the fragrant fruit upon the bough

Of the grey olive-tree, which lives its life

In sprouting leafage, and the twining flowers,

Bright children of the earth's fertility.

But you, O friends! above these offerings poured

To reconcile the dead, ring out your dirge

To summon up Darius from the shades,

Himself a shade; and I will pour these draughts,

Which earth shall drink, unto the gods of hell.

Queen, by the Persian land adored,

By thee be this libation poured,

Passing to those who hold command

Of dead men in the spirit-land!

And we will sue, in solemn chant,

That gods who do escort the dead

In nether realms, our prayer may grant—

Back to us be Darius led!