Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/233

Rh For him, my mother, black of soul, hath slain,

Wrapt in her subtle toils, which witness bare

To the foul murder in the laver wrought.

Myself, long time an exile, coming home,

Slew her who bare me,—I deny it not,—

Avenging my dear father, blood for blood,—

And sharer in the blame is Loxias,

Who goads of anguish to my heart announced,

Unless the guilty found from me their due.

My deed, or just, or unjust, do thou judge;—

Whate'er thy verdict, I shall be content.

Too grave the cause for mortal to adjudge,

Nor is it lawful for myself to try

A suit of murder freighted with sharp wrath.

Moreover, though, all needful rites performed,

My shrine thou visitest as suppliant,

Harmless and pure; yet in my city's cause,

Hurtful to it, I claim, thou shalt not be.

For these hold functions hard to set aside,

And not triumphant in their suit, henceforth,

The poison of their hate, falling to earth,

Will to this land breed dire and cureless plague.—

So stands the matter;—each alternative,

For them to stay, for me to banish them,

Is mischief-fraught, nor know I remedy.

But since this weighty cause hath lighted here,

Judges of murder, bound by oath, I'll choose,—

Solemn tribunal for all future time.