Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/168

98 With majesty arrayed, and might,

A king in Pluto's gloomy reign,

Serving the great ones who command

In Hades.—For in upper day

King was he over kings, whose hand

The fatal sceptre wields which men obey.

Nay, Father, under Troia's wall

With other victims of the spear,

What need for thee in death to fall,

And near Scamander grace a foreign bier?

Oh rather might the murderous twain

Themselves have met their death-blow, slain

By kindred hands, so from afar the tale

Had reached thine ear, shielded thyself from bale.

Richer, my child, thy words than gold;—

Bliss Hyperborean they excel,

It may not be! Of scourge twofold

The clang resounds.—Already dwell

'Neath earth your champions; here who reign

Have hands unclean; hateful to me the twain;

Them in more direful hate these children hold.

Like dart thy word of dread,

Piercing mine car, hath sped.

Zeus, Zeus, upsending from below

Late thine avenging blow,—