Page:Four Plays of Aeschylus (Cookson).djvu/96

84 Dead bodies in their graves. Milk, white and pure,

And crystal honey cropped from bee-searched flowers,

And cool cups drawn from virgin founts; and here,

Pressed from wild nature's bosom, is strong wine,

The jocund youngling of an ancient stem;

And I have oil of olive, amber-clear,

Sweet esence of a never-fading tree,

And wreathed blossoms,—children all of earth

That yieldeth every fruit. Then, dear my friends,

Accompany with song acceptable

These luscious draughts that soothe the silent dead,

And forth from his sepulchral monument

Call up Darius' spirit. The cup earth drinks

I will pour out to the Gods of the underworld.

Queen of Persia, chief in worth,

'Neath the chambers of the earth,

Send thy rich libations streaming;

We with prayers of holy seeming

Will beseech the dead that there

They may find acceptance fair.

Gods infernal, pure and holy,

Earth and Hermes, melancholy

Lord of death and gloom and night,

Send his soul up to the light.

He will heal,—point undismayed

Where grief's far horizons fade.

Peer of the Gods, whose kingly state

Is evermore felicity!

Shifting as the shocks of fate

Sinks and soars our endless cry