Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/409

Rh When she shall hear his frenzied soul's disease,

With wailing, wailing loud,

Will she, ill-starred one, cry, nor pour the strain

Of nightingale's sad song,

But shriller notes will utter in lament,

And on her breast will fall

The smiting of her hands,

And fearful tearing of her hoary hair.

For better would he fare in Hades dread,

Who liveth sick in soul,

Who, springing from the noblest hero-stock

Of all the Achæans strong,

Abides no longer in his native mood,

But wanders far astray.

Ο wretched father, what a weight of woe,

Thy son's, hast thou to learn,

Which none else yet has borne,

Of all the high Zeus-sprung Æacidæ.

Aias. Time in its long, long course immeasurable,

Both brings to light all hidden things, and hides

What once was seen; and nothing is there strange

We may not look for: even dreadest oaths

And firm resolves must yield themselves to him.

So I, who for a while was stern and hard,

Like steel, oil-dipped, am womanised in tone,

Moved by my wife's fond prayers, whom I am loth

To leave a widow with her orphaned child

Among my foes. But now I go to bathe

Where the fair meadows slope along the shore,

That having washed away my stains of guilt,

I may avert the Goddess's dire wrath;