Page:Tragedies of Euripides (Way 1898) v3.djvu/518

490 Slain by his foes. One day shall he who slew,

Guileful Odysseus, pay fit penalty.

(Raises the death-dirge).

In moans that of no strange lips I borrow,

O son, my sorrow,

I wail for thee.

What woefullest journey was thine, thy faring

Of ill-starred daring

To Troy oversea,

Despite my warning, thy father's pleading!

Dear head!—O bleeding

Heart of me!

So far as one may take on him who hath

No tie of kinship, I too wail thy son.

Curse ye, Odysseus and Oineus' scion,

Through whom I cry on

My noble dead!

Curse her, who voyaged from Hellas over

To a Phrygian lover,

A wanton's bed,

Who of sons made desolate towns without number,

And bowed thee in slumber

Of death, dear head!

Sore hast thou wrung mine heart, Philammon's son,

In life, and since to Hades thou hast passed.

Thine overweening, ruinous rivalry