Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/419

Rh For none who loved him now could have the heart

To see him still up-panting from his wound,

At either nostril, blackened gore and blood

Springing from that self-slaughter. Now, ah me!

What shall I do? What friend will lift thee up?

And where is Teucros? How in timeliest need

Would he now come the body to lay out

Of this his fallen brother! Ο ill-starred

Aias, who, being what thou wast, hast fared

As now thou farest; e'en from bitterest foes

Thou now could'st claim the meed of righteous tears.

Chor. Ο man of many woes, 'twas thine, 'twas thine,

In stern unbending mood,

At the fixed hour to work

Ill doom of boundless griefs;

So all night long, till dawn,

Thou poured'st dire complaint,

With spirit vexed to death,

Against the Atreidæ in thy bitter mood.

Great author of our sorrows was that day,

When for the arms of great Achilles rose

Strife of the brave in fight.

Tec. Ah me! Ah misery!

Chor. True griefs, I know too well, will pierce the heart.

Tec. Ah me! Ah misery!

Chor. I wonder not, Ο woman, thou should'st groan

Yet more, but now of such a friend bereaved.

Tec. Thine 'tis to think; mine all too well to know.

Chor. I own it so.

Tec. Ah me! to what a yoke of bondage, child,

We now draw nigh, what watchers over us!

Chor. Ah! thou hast spoken now

Of deeds unutterable,