Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1896) v2.djvu/266

210 O'er the land as a beacon the exile that strayed

From his father's halls, while the years dragged by

In misery.

Victory! God unto us is bringing

Victory, O my friend!

Lift up thine hands and thy voice upringing

In prayers to the Gods, that, with Fortune flinging

Her shield round about him, thy brother through Argos' gates may wend!

Hold—the sweet bliss of greeting I receive

Of thee, hereafter must I render back.

But, ancient—for in season hast thou come,—

Say, how shall I requite my father's slayer,

And her that shares his guilty couch, my mother?

Have I in Argos any loyal friend,

Or, like my fortunes, am I bankrupt all?

With whom to league me?—best were night, or day?

What path shall I essay to assault my foes?

Ah son, no friend hast thou in thy misfortune.

Nay, but this thing as treasure-trove is rare,

That one should share thine evil as thy good.

Since thou art wholly, as touching friends, bereft,—

Art even hope-forlorn,—be assured of me,

In thine own hand and fortune is thine all

For winning father's house and city again.

What shall I do then, to attain thereto?