Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1894) v1.djvu/40

12

No tidings?—remaineth but rending of hair,

And the stricken ones turned to the tomb with the garments of sorrow around them?

Even so—even so! yet uplift we in prayer

Our hands to the Gods, for that power from the days everlasting hath crowned them.

O Healer-king,

Find thou for Admetus the balm of relief, for the captive deliverance!

Vouchsafe it, vouchsafe it, for heretofore

Hast thou found out a way; even now once more

Pluck back our belovèd from Hades' door,

Strike down Death's hand red-reeking with gore!

Woe's me! woe's me!—let the woe-dirge ring!

Ah, scion of Pheres, alas for thy lot, for love's long severance!

For such things on his sword might a man not fall,

Or knit up his throat in the noose 'twixt the heaven and the earth that quivereth?