Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/133

Rh There too, this captive slave, this auguress,

And this man's concubine,—this prophetess,

His faithful bedfellow, who shared with him

The sailor's bench. Not unrequited wrought they;

For he lies—thus. While she, in swan-like fashion,

Having breathed forth her last, her dying wail,

Lies here, to him a paramour, and so

Adds keener relish to my sweet revenge.

Oh might some sudden Fate

Not tethered to a weight

Of couch-enchaining anguish, hither waft

The boon of endless sleep!

For our most gracious guardian slain we weep,

In woman's cause of yore

Full many a pang who bore,

And now lies smitten by a woman's craft.

Woe! frenzied Helen, woe!

Through thee alone, through one,

How many souls, how many, were undone;

What havoc dire 'neath Troia thou hast wrought.

And now the cureless woe,

Heirloom of blood, shed long ago,

Through thee hath blossomed, causing strife

Unquenchable, with husband-murder rife.