Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1894) v1.djvu/264

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O hapless I!—not—not the bacchant head

Of prophetess Kassandra bring'st thou hither?

Thou nam'st the living: but the dead—this dead,

Bewailest not,—look, the dead form is bared!

[Uncovers the corpse. Seems it not strange—worse than all boding fears?

Ah me, my son!—I see Polydorus dead,

Whom in his halls I deemed the Thracian warded.

O wretch! it is my death—I am no more!

O my child, O my child!

Mine anguish shall thrill

Through a wail shrilling wild

In the ears of me still

Which pealed there but now from the throat of a

demon, a herald of ill.

Didst thou then know thy son's doom, hapless one?

Beyond, beyond belief, new woes I see.

Ills upon ills throng one after other:

Never day shall pass by without tear, without sigh,

nor mine anguish refrain.

Dread, O dread evils, hapless queen, we suffer.