Page:Sophocles (Storr 1919) v2.djvu/203



Aye, slain.

I know, I know. A champion was raised up

To avenge the mourning ghost.

No champion for me,

The one yet left is taken, reft away.

A weary, weary lot is thine.

I know it well, too well,

When life, month in month out,

Like a dark torrent flows,

Horror on horror, pain on pain.

We have watched its tearful course.

Cease then to turn it where—

What wouldst thou say?

No comfort’s left of hope

From him of royal blood,

Sprung from one stock with me.

Death is the common lot.

To die as he died, hapless youth,

Entangled in the reins

Beneath the tramp of coursers’ hoofs!

Torture ineffable! 191