Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (1908) Morshead.djvu/181

Rh Alas, their fate! the combat murderous,

The horror of the house,

The curse of ancient bloodshed, now repaid!

Yea, deep and to the heart the deathblow fell,

Edged by their feud ineffable—

By the grim curse, their sire did imprecate—

Discord and deadly hate!

Hark, how the city and its towers make moan—

How the land mourns that held them for its own!

Fierce greed and fell division did they blend,

Till death made end!

They strove to part the heritage in twain,

Giving to each a gain—

Yet that which struck the balance in the strife,

The arbitrating sword,

By those who loved the twain is held abhorred—

Loathed is the god of death, who sundered each from life!

Here, by the stroke of steel, behold! they lie—

And rightly may we cry

Beside their fathers, let them here be laid—

Iron gave their doom, with iron their graves be made—

Alack, the slaying sword, alack, th' entombing spade!

Alas, a piercing shriek, a rending groan,

A cry unfeigned of sorrow felt at heart!

With shuddering of grief, with tears that start,

With wailful escort, let them hither come—

For one or other make divided moan!

No light lament of pity mixed with gladness,

But with true tears, poured from the soul of sadness,

Over the princes dead and their bereavèd home