Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/195

 Stayed in their wild career his steeds and freed

The corpse all blood-bestained, disfigured, marred

Past recognition of his nearest friend.

Straightway the Phoceans burnt him on a pyre,

And envoys now are on their way to bring

That mighty frame shut in a little urn,

And lay his ashes in his fatherland.

Such is my tale, right piteous to tell;

But for all those who saw it with their eyes,

As I, there never was a sadder sight.

Alas, alas! our ancient masters’ line,

So it appears, hath perished root and branch.

Are these glad tidings? Rather would I say

Sad, but of profit. Ah how hard my lot

When I must look for safety to my losses.

Why, lady, why downhearted at my news?

Strange is the force of motherhood; a mother,

Whate’er her wrongs, can ne’er forget her child.

So it would seem our coming was in vain.

Nay, not in vain. How canst thou say “in vain,”

If of his death thou bringst convincing proof,

Who from my life drew life, and yet, estranged,

Forgat the breasts that suckled him, forgat

A mother’s tender nurture, fled his home,

And since that day has never seen me more, 183