Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/303

Rh Of fortune smoothly glides, fondly they trust

That the same fortune still will waft them on.

So now to me are all things full of fear;

Woes sent of Heaven are present to mine eyes;

Rings in mine ear a cry, no pæan strain:

Such terror from these evils scares my soul.

Wherefore without my cars and wonted pomp,

Once more I issue from my home, and bring

To my son's royal sire, libations kind,

Whate'er is soothing to the honoured dead.

White milk, sweet draught from heifer undefiled;

The flower-distiller's dew, translucent honey,

And crystal water drawn from virgin spring;

Here joyance too I bring of ancient vine,

Draught unadulterate from mother wild;

From pale green olive-tree, that while it lives

With constant leafage blooms, this odorous fruit;

And wreathed flowers, brood of all-teeming Earth.

But, O my friends, chant ye well-omened hymns

O'er these libations offered to the dead;

Darius' mighty ghost do ye invoke,

While I, these honours, which the earth shall drink,

Myself will send to deities below.

O royal lady, to whom Persians bow,

Do thou, to halls below, libations send,

While we in solemn lay

Those who escort the dead will pray

Beneath the earth their gracious aid to lend.