Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/167

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In turn, our tearful strain,

O Father, hear!

Hark how thy children twain

Wail forth their anthems drear!

Exiles, we seek thy tomb,

Sad, suppliant pair;

Say what of good is here!

What hope relieves our gloom!

Triumphs despair.

And yet, should so the god ordain,

Hereafter, gladder notes shall sound;—

Instead of this funereal strain

In palace-halls shall ring amain

A pæan to the dear one newly found.

Oh haddest thou, 'neath Ilion's walls,

But perished, by some Lycian spear

Transfixed, my father, to thy halls

Glory bequeathing, while thy proud career

A lustre o'er the path had shed

Which now in gloom thy children tread;

Beyond the wave, by numbers reared, a mound,

No burthen to thy house, thou then hadst found.

Dear to the dear ones in the fight

Who perished nobly, thou hadst lain,—