Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/374

276 To this weary struggle of life?

Ah! woe is me! Woe is me!

Elder. Ο boy, that art this hero's son, the task

Goes far beyond my strength. Do thou take part;

Thy hand is stronger far than mine to save.

Hyllos. I lay my hand upon him, but to grant

A life that shall forget its toil and pain,

This neither from mine own nor others' help

Is mine to work. Zeus only giveth that.

Hera. Ah, boy! Where art thou, boy?

Lift me a little. This way, this way prop.

Ah! Ο ye Heavens!

Again it seizes, seizes in dread strength,

To the grave bringing low,

The fierce disease no healing skill may reach.

Ο Pallas! Pallas! yet again it stings.

Have pity, my son, on thy father; strike with a sword none will blame;

Strike me under the neck, and heal the pain which she wrought,

Thy mother, godless in guilt. Ah, may I see her brought low,

Slain, yea, as thus she slays!

Ο Hades, kind and sweet,

Twin-born brother of Zeus,

Lull me, lull me to sleep,

With fate that brooks no delay,

Smiting the man worn with woe.

Chor. I shudder, as I hear, my friends, the griefs

With which our king, being what he is, is vexed.

Hera. Ah me! full many labours hard to tell,

Many and fierce, with hand and strength of back

Have I wrought out. And ne'er the wife of Zeus

Such task assigned, nor yet Eurystheus harsh,