Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/172

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So might we wrangle on!

And so should wrangling still have the last word!

Then I have done; reck thine own rede and rue it!

[Exit.

What sorrow like thine is!

And ye angry ghosts,

Blood-boltered Erinys,

Loud, loud are your boasts!

Race-wreckers, your feet have not tarried!

The tree-root and branch lies shattered!

The ruins of Œdipus' line

With the dust of its dead shall be scattered!

And how shall my heart incline?

On thy poor corse shall I shed no tear?

Shall I not walk before thy bier

When thou to the grave art carried?

Ah! maugre all pity,

I am afraid!

From the wrath of the city

My soul shrinks dismayed!

New sorrow is here for my grieving!

Yea! for there shall not fail thee

The meed of a multitude's tears!

Thou shalt have many to wail thee,

Lost in the wreck of the years!