Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/154

84 In light who dwell; on others wait,

Lingering, their woes in Darkness' glimmering realm;

Others sheer Night enshrouds in blackest fate

When nurturing earth is blood-drenched, lo

Fixed is for aye the vengeance-crying gore;—

And he who shed it, paying Atè's score,

Doth burgeon out in all-entangling woe.

The bridal couch if man profane,

Hopeless is cure; though in one common flood,

To purify the hand defiled by blood,

All streams commingling flow, they flow in vain.

But for myself, through Heaven's command,

The captured city's doom I share;—

Led hither from my native land,

'Tis mine the menial's lot to bear.

Their acts, whose will my fortune sways,

Just or unjust, I needs must praise:

Beneath my vest grief's anguished throes

Shrouding, I quell my bitter hate;—

While numbed in heart by secret woes,

Of my true lords I weep the hapless fate.

Ye captive women, yo who tend this home,