Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/476

406

Thus I complain, in piteous strain,

Grief-laden, tear-evoking, shrill;

Ah woe is me! woe! woe!

Dirge-like it sounds: mine own death-trill

I pour, yet breathing vital air.

Hear, hill-crowned Apia, hear my prayer!

Full well, O land,

My voice barbaric thou canst understand;

While oft with rendings I assail

My byssine vesture and Sidonian veil.

My nuptial rite in heaven's pure sight

Pollution were, death-laden, rude;

Ah woe is me! woe! woe!

Alas for sorrow's murky brood!

Where will this billow hurl me? Where?

Hear, hill-crowned Apia, hear my prayer;

Full well, O land,

My voice barbaric thou canst understand,

While oft with rendings I assail

My byssine vesture and Sidonian veil.

The oar indeed and home with sails

Flax-tissued, swelled with favouring gales,

Staunch to the wave, from spear-storm free,

Have to this shore escorted me,