Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/137

Rh He reaped the sword's due meed,

Hence no proud boast from him let Hades hear!

Perplexed I am, bewildered sore

Which way to turn; escape is vain;

Totters the house; I dread the crimson rain

That with loud plashing shakes these walls; no more

Falleth in niggard droppings now the gore.

And bent on deed of mischief, Fate anew

On other whetstones, whetteth vengeance due.

Earth! Earth! oh hadst thou been

My shroud ere I my king

Prone in the silver-sided bath had seen!

Who will inter him? Who his dirge shall sing?

So hardy thou? Wilt thou who didst assail

Thy husband's life, thyself uplift the wail?

Wilt to his shade, for the great deeds he wrought,

Render a graceless grace, with malice fraught?

With tears of honest grief

Weeping the godlike chief,

Above the tomb who now shall raise

The funeral hymn? Who speak the hero's praise?

Not thine the task to counsel here.

By us he fell: this man we slew;

Ours be it to inurn him too;

Borne from the palace, o'er the bier