Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/173

Rh Alas intolerable pain!

Alas for cureless woe!

No foreign aid can bring relief;

No! from yourselves the cure must flow.

'Tis blood must staunch your household grief.

So chant we to the gods below.

Hear, blessed powers;

Beneath the earth our orisons attend!

And with aspèct benign,

Succour and conquest to these children send!

My Father, in no kingly fashion slain,

To me, thy suppliant, grant to sway thy house.

I too, my Father, need thy gracious aid,

That scathless I may work Ægisthos' doom.

So mortal men to thee shall dedicate

The solemn banquet;—else, unhonoured thou,

When grateful reek rich off 'rings to the dead.

Nuptial libations of my heritage

I too will bring from the paternal home,

And chief in honour will this tomb adorn.