Page:The Dramas of Aeschylus (Swanwick).djvu/95

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Well ended, all is well. But, in long years,

Some chances, one might say, fell happily,

While others adverse were. For who, save gods,

Lives through the whole of life by grief unscathed?

For should I tell of toils, of lodgment rude,

Infrequent landings, vexed by dangerous surf,

What portion of the day exempt from groans?

Still more abhorrent was our life ashore;—

For close to hostile walls our beds were strewn;

Dank vapours fell from heaven, while from the earth

Drizzled the meadow dews,—our raiment's canker,

Matting, like savage beast's, our shaggy hair.

Or spake I of bird-killing winter's cold,

Unbearable, from snows of Ida born;

Or summer's heat, when, stretched on noonday couch,

By breeze unruffled, slept the waveless sea?

But why lament these hardships? Past the toil!

Past now and gone,—past also for the dead,

Who ne'er will trouble them again to rise.

Why call the spectral army-roll? and why,

Living, bemoan reverses? Nay, I claim

With many a farewell to salute mischance.

For us, the remnant of the Argive host,

Joy triumphs, nor can Sorrow tilt the scale.

Winging o'er land and sea our homeward flight,

We to the sun-light well may make this boast,

"The Argive host, captors at length of Troy,

These spoils, an off'ring to Achaia's gods,

Hang up, bright glory of their ancient shrines."

Whoso these tidings hears must needs extol