Page:Sophocles - Seven Plays, 1900.djvu/256

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Here, not far off, he trails yon furrowed path.

For, so ’tis told, this mode the sufferer hath

Of sustenance, oh hardness! bringing low

Wild creatures with wing‘d arrows from his bow;

Nor findeth healer for his troublous woe.

. I feel his misery.

With no companion eye,

Far from all human care,

He pines with fell disease;

Each want he hourly sees

Awakening new despair.

How can he bear it still?

O cruel Heavens! pain

Of that afflicted mortal train

Whose life sharp sorrows fill!

Born in a princely hall,

Highest, perchance, of all,

Now lies he comfortless

Alone in deep distress,

’Mongst rough and dappled brutes,

With pangs and hunger worn;

While from far distance shoots,

On airy pinion borne,

The unbridled Echo, still replying

To his most bitter crying.

. At nought of this I marvel—for if I

Judge rightly, there assailed him from on high

That former plague through Chrysa’s cruel sting:

And if to-day he suffer anything

With none to soothe, it must be from the will

Of some great God, so caring to fulfil

The word of prophecy, lest he should bend

On Troy the shaft no mortal may forfend,

Before the arrival of Troy’s destined hour.

When she must fall, o’er-mastered by their power.

. Hush, my son!

. Why so?

. A sound

Gendered of some mortal woe,