Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/173

Rh And must this poor soul go without his moan

Save the death-song his sister singeth alone?

O bitter past believing!

What the city declareth

Be done or forborne!

Little my heart careth,—

Too deeply I mourn,—

Yea, my sorrow their anger despiseth!

Lead on! Though his people disown him

And no proud funeral pomp he shall have,

Together our hearts shall bemoan him,—

Together our hands build his grave!

For to-day goeth by as a tale that is told,

And Time metes new censure, revoking the old,

And Justice her dooms reviseth!

Go thy ways! Where my trust is

My mourning shall be!

When the stern soul of Justice

And man's censure agree,

Shall I question or shall I upbraid her?

Nay, rather my dirge shall be chanted

For him who wrought most for his land,

And the city that Cadmus planted,

Under Heaven and Zeus' mighty hand,

When she was like to be cast away,

Foundered far from the light of day

'Neath the wave of the strong invader.

[Exeunt; one half following with the body of, and the other half  with the body of.