Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/321

 Dear father, wrapt for aye in nether gloom,

E’en in the tomb

Never shalt thou for lack of love repine,

Her love and mine.

His fate—

Is even as he planned.

How so?

He died, so willed he, in a foreign land.

Lapped in kind earth he sleeps his long last sleep,

And o’er his grave friends weep.

How great our loss these streaming eyes can tell,

This sorrow nought can quell.

Thou hadst thy wish ’mid strangers thus to die,

But I, ah me, not by.

Alas, my sister, what new fate

Befalls us orphans desolate?

His end was blessèd; therefore, children, stay

Your sorrow. Man is born to fate a prey.

Sister, let us back again. 299