Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1896) v2.djvu/411

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But ah the gnawing anguish of suspense!

Daughter, a fair-wind course may yet befall

From storms of present ills for thee and me.

Yet may he come—my son, thy lord, may come.

Nay, calm thee: stop the fountains welling tears

Of these thy sons, and soothe them with thy words,

Cheating them with a fable—piteous cheat!

Sooth, men's afflictions weary of their work,

And tempest-blasts not alway keep their force;

The prosperous are not prosperous to the end;

For all things fleet and yield each other place.

He is the hero, who in steadfast hope

Trusts on : despair is but the coward's part.

Unto the stately temple-roofs, whereby

The ancient coucheth on the ground,

Bowed o'er a propping staff, a chanter I

Whose song rings sorrow round,

Like some hoar swan I come—a voice, no more,

Like to a night-dream's phantom-show,

Palsied with eld, yet loyal as of yore

To friends of long ago.

Hail, children fatherless! Hail, ancient, thou!

Hail, mother bowed 'neath sorrow's load,