Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/171

101

Cruel, all-daring, Mother, woe!

Alas, as foeman buries foe,

A king, no trusty liegemen near,

Thy wedded lord without a tear,

Thou hadst the heart unwailed to send below.

All the dishonour thou hast shown:

Therefore shall she our Sire's disgrace atone,

Far as the gods prevail,

Far as my hands avail;

Then may I perish when she lieth prone!

Maimed was he;—let this whet thy hate;

And with like outrage him she did entomb,

That for thy life his fate

Might be too sore a weight.

Such was thy Father's ignominious doom!

Our Father's lot thy words proclaim;

While I, despised, a thing of nought,

Shut out like vicious cur with shame,

Forgot to smile; alone, I sought

Solace in weeping,—anguish-fraught.

Hearing the tale my lips impart,

Grave it, my brother, on thy inmost heart.