Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1898) v3.djvu/40

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Parthenopæus, Atalanta's son.

Now may Artemis, over the mountains hasting

With his mother, smite with her bow, and in death lay yon man low,

Who is hitherward come for my city's wasting!

So be it, child: yet for the right they come;

Wherefore I dread lest God defend the right.

And where is he whom the selfsame mother bore

With me, to a doom of travail sore?

Dear ancient, where is Polyneikes, tell.

He standeth near Adrastus, near the tomb

Of Niobê's unwedded daughters seven.

See'st thou?

I see—not clearly—yet discern

Half-guessed, the outline of his frame and chest.

O that as wind-driven clouds swift-racing

I might speed with my feet through the air, and light

By my brother, mine own, and with arms embracing

Might hold but his dear neck close-enfolden—

So long an exile in dolorous plight!

Lo, how he flasheth in armour golden,

Like the morning shafts of the sun bright-blazing!